


The Art of Silent War

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Addiction, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Case Fic, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infidelity, M/M, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Moral Ambiguity, Mutual Pining, Reverse Reichenbach, Romance, Secrets, Suicidal Thoughts, mentions of abuse, not between john and sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-12-27
Packaged: 2018-08-29 05:30:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 100,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8477170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: When faced with the choice between rehab and assisting his brother on an intelligence mission, Sherlock Holmes embarks on a journey to Tallinn, where he meets Captain John Watson. Despite John’s marriage they get caught up in their feelings, starting an affair that grows into something stronger than Sherlock ever expected. But many things aren’t what they seem. John has a secret he’s not telling Sherlock, and soon they get wrapped up in a deception so astute that it puts not just their love at risk, but their very lives.





	1. Part I: Tallinn, Estonia

**Author's Note:**

> I promise a happy ending, but I urge you to read the tags and warnings if you have a hard time with specific things. Any notes or translations relevant for the chapters will be in the end notes. 
> 
> English isn't my native language. If you find any mistakes, feel free to point them out to me! Any concrit and comments make me very, very happy :)

Sherlock Holmes was prone to being annoyed, by a great number of things. Countless situations and people – _especially_ people - were capable of getting a rise out of him, always had been. Still, nothing put him in as bad a mood as his brother's wordless stare from across the desk, so clearly prompting him to start the conversation. Which was, frankly, an impudence, considering that _he'd_ asked him here.

Sherlock glared at him, resisting the urge to cross his arms defensively.

“Well?” he asked eventually, trying not to get annoyed by the fact that once again, Mycroft had gotten him to give in.

Mycroft folded his hands, giving Sherlock an assessing look before he spoke. “How are you, brother dear?”

Sherlock stared at him. “You did not seriously ask me to come here on a social call, did you?”

He contemplated getting up and leaving if it turned out that he had come for nothing, as opposed to getting up, kicking the fancy chair he was sitting in, and then leaving.

“I did not, in fact, which doesn't mean that I can't ask after my own brother's wellbeing on the rare occasion that I see him.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I'm fine,” he said through his teeth. “Not that it's any of your business. Now, what am I really here for?”

Mycroft sighed, a sound Sherlock had heard countless times, conveying just what he thought about his answer clearer than any words. Thankfully, he dropped the subject.

“I need someone for a mission in Tallinn,” he said without further preamble. “It involves undercover work in a laboratory over several weeks to gain vital information for our purposes.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him, raising a single eyebrow. “You do realise that I'm your brother, not your employee, don't you?”

Mycroft didn't grace him with a response. Instead he handed him a file, the red seal marking it as top secret immediately catching Sherlock's eye.

“This is a brief summary of the events surrounding the war in Estonia.“

Sherlock didn't have anything resembling broad knowledge concerning current international affairs, but even so he was aware that this war Mycroft was speaking of didn't exist. He frowned at him, well aware that he was rising to the bait.

“There's no war in Estonia.”

“Oh, there is,” Mycroft dissented. “You merely have no knowledge of it. It's hidden. Silent, if you will.“

Sherlock huffed at that. Poetry, how very pedestrian. Mycroft talked over the sound. “And there will be one. A real one. If we don't stop it.”

“I don't see how that's related to me in any-”

“Sherlock.”

Mycroft didn't raise his voice, but the single word was enough to stop him talking nonetheless. It was the tone signalling that he was done being patient, that there was no point in discussing. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of it enough times to know that talking over him was futile.

“Let me make myself very clear. You have been dancing on the edge for months.”

Ah, so that was what this was really about. He should have known that Mycroft wouldn't let it go that easily.

“You're not getting better. You promised you'd find something to hold on to after your last- _relapse_. We both know you didn't. We both know you're days away from your next slip, at most. I won't let it come to that. No, Sherlock, hear me out.”

Sherlock, who had opened his mouth to speak, now closed it with an audible click. Mycroft leaned forwards in his seat. The increased proximity irritated Sherlock even more. It was like Mycroft could see right through his skin to his skull, his bones, his heart. Like he could see everything hidden inside him. It was infuriating.

“I won't let it happen again. I know you love London, but right now, it's not a good place for you to be. It's toxic. You know every dealer, every street corner, every drug den in this city. You need to get away from here, Sherlock. See something else for a while. Find something to keep your mind off the drugs before you come back. It's either this mission I'm offering you, or rehab.”

Sherlock blinked several times. A loaded silence stretched between them as his mind raced through every single retort he could spit out. None of them were good enough. Because _damn_ him, damn his meddling brother to hell, but as much as Sherlock loathed to admit it, he was right. And they both knew it, as they knew that rehab wasn't an empty threat.

Sherlock was never going to go to rehab at his brother's hand again.

He swallowed hard, attempting to speak twice before he could force the words out. Ignoring the bitter taste they left in his mouth he asked, “When do I leave?”

* * *

The plane landed with a delay of fifteen minutes, enough for Sherlock to grow fidgety in his seat. He'd gone over the file on the operation with the witless name _Redgrave_  that Mycroft had given him enough times to know the contents by heart.

It was easy work, nothing he'd have to push himself for. He was to infiltrate a laboratory of a governmental military base in order to uncover a trade of documents containing delicate state secrets. The laboratory was only part of the cover, but a graduate chemist had been needed for the job.

Sherlock couldn't help but think that Mycroft must have had a finger in the pie, somehow, one way or another. He had just been _waiting_ for an opportunity like this to come along.

Sherlock slammed the file shut, drumming his fingers against the armrest as he waited to exit the plane.

He retrieved his luggage before stepping outside to look for his driver. The car wasn't hard to find, with the same black coating and tinted windows the British counterparts were equipped with.

The driver didn't talk and Sherlock was thankful for the silence, leaning his head against the cool window as they drove through the foreign city. The buildings were almost sober in their design and the streets felt plain. Everything seemed small and contained, so unlike London.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, shutting down thoughts of the city and its familiar sights before they could mingle with flashes of the sharp ecstasy of his last high, the one that had let him end up in hospital, the one that had Mycroft sit in stoic silence by his bedside for days on end, saying more through the quietness than they'd ever managed out loud. The one that had ultimately led him here.

Contrary to what Mycroft thought, that _had_ been the last time he'd shot up. He wasn't a complete idiot, despite what his brother might believe, and he knew when he had a problem.

Being dependent on a chemical substance was tedious. Degrading. It went against everything Sherlock wanted people to think of him, wanted to think of himself. That he didn't need anyone or anything. That he managed just fine on his own. However, the circumstances leading to his dependency had been even more tedious, or seemed like it, at the time. The restlessness. The _boredom._ The hole in his chest that the cocaine had filled so deliciously. 

The aftermath of the entire affair had put Sherlock in a rather desperate position, and he knew that his relapse had been inevitable. Imminent, even.

Still, he hadn't relapsed _yet._ The knowledge that his brother wasn't always right about everything, no matter how small his error, filled him with a dim sense of satisfaction. Right now, cut off from everything he usually drew comfort from, it was a welcome solace.

The drive took the better part of an hour. Upon his arrival, Sherlock was instructed to meet his contact person in his office. He stood up when he came in, coming around the desk to offer his hand.

“Mark Chapman,” he introduced himself, pointing at a chair. “It's nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes. I hope you had a good trip?”

Sherlock took a seat, nodding briefly.

“Good. I trust that you've been briefed on the mission? Then I'm going to give you an introduction to your new job here,” Chapman said, and Sherlock leaned back with an internal sigh.

Naturally, the introduction was a complete waste of his time. It wasn't just that the man insisted on repeating everything Sherlock already knew, but also the fact that he clearly hadn't gotten his position due to intellectual superiority. 

The only actually useful information Sherlock received was that he'd go by his real name, since he was a real chemist, should anyone care to look him up. That, and the fact that he'd have another contact directly inside the laboratory, a young woman named Molly Hooper.

“How much does she know?” Sherlock asked, scanning the file on her Chapman had given him. She was a little younger than him, from Northamptonshire, a trained pathologist covering as a simple chemist. Her picture looked innocent enough, but Sherlock wasn't fooled. She did work for the government, after all.

“Everything. Now, if that's all, I'm going to show you around a little.”

The base was bigger than Sherlock had anticipated. Chapman led him to his quarters first, a sore excuse of a flat, but it would do. Sherlock dropped off his luggage and closed the door, nodding him to continue. As he wasn't actually allowed in most wings, he was merely shown the cafeteria and the grounds outside before being taken to the laboratory.

“Oh, I see we've caught everyone at lunch time,” Chapman said upon entering the deserted lab. Sherlock couldn't say that he minded. Although, he noticed, they weren't completely alone.

“Someone's there,” he pointed out, nodding towards a man in the corner. He was sitting at a desk, his washed-out blond head bowed over a textbook Sherlock could recognise as medical from where he stood.

“Ah, Captain! Didn't see you there for a second.”

The man looked up, giving a polite smile at being addressed. His eyes travelled to Sherlock, settling on his face. The smile turned genuine as he gave him a curious look.

“Chapman,” he said in acknowledgement. "Good to see you." Received pronunciation, Sherlock thought. Probably from London. The man licked his lips. “Who's that with you?”

“That's Sherlock Holmes. He's here to do some lab work for us. Fresh in from London.”

He turned to Sherlock. “Mr. Holmes, this is Captain John Watson.”

Captain John Watson stood up, his eyes on him as he crossed the distance between them.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes.” He extended his hand, and Sherlock stepped forward to take it.

“Sherlock, please,” he said automatically. His eyes swept over his attire once before settling on his face again. “And how long has it been since you were injured in the field?”

John looked at him in surprise, turning to Chapman. “Did you tell him about me?”

“He didn't,” Sherlock said before Chapman could reply. “I merely observed you.”

“Observed me,” John echoed, raising his eyebrows. “Other people would call that stalking, I think.”

His eyes remained on Sherlock's, and Sherlock could tell that he was intrigued rather than offended. Which was why he continued by saying, “I arrived in this country two hours ago. I observed you just now, which was more than enough to go on. It's obvious, really.”

John's mouth twitched. “Is it.”

Sherlock pointed at his wrists. “Tan lines. You're military, it's only logical to assume that you were stationed in the field not too long ago. Afghanistan or Iraq, no matter. The fact that you're here now, along with the stiffness in your shoulder, suggests an injury acquired in combat. Did I get that wrong, Doctor?”

John stared at him, shaking his head in amazement. “How did you-”

“That textbook you were reading. I can tell from the diagram on the page that it's not for amateurs. It's not a new book, worn at the edges, filled with sticky notes and additional comments. You had a pen with you, which means that you're writing into it, which means that it's undoubtedly yours. Ergo, you're a trained doctor.”

“God,” Chapman said beside him. “Your brother wasn't exaggerating.”

Sherlock ignored him, his eyes fixed on John. John, who wasn't punching him, who didn't even look angry. Who licked his lips and said, “That... was amazing.”

Sherlock blinked, slightly taken aback. “Do you think so?”

“Of course I do. Quite extraordinary. I can see why you got this job.”

Sherlock ignored the last part, privately thinking that telling him that the reason was his drug habit rather than his extraordinary intellect wasn't the wisest course of action, and said, “That's not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John let out a short laugh at that. “Can't imagine why,” he deadpanned, his eyes twinkling. They looked at each other for a moment, each taking the other in.

“Any idea when the others will return?” Chapman interrupted the moment when the silence stretched.

“No, sorry. They left just twenty minutes ago, I think. Actually,” John said, glancing at the clock on the wall, “I should get going, too.”

“Can't keep the missus waiting?”

John sniffed, giving him a quick smile. “Right.”

He turned to Sherlock again, his expression softening a little. “It was a pleasure,” he declared, his lips curving into a smirk. “I'm sure I'll see you around, Sherlock.”

He gave him a final nod, his eyes lingering on him for a moment longer before he left.

“Well, I must get going as well. You'll find your way back, Mr. Holmes?” Sherlock nodded. “Good. If you want to, you can come back later to meet your new colleagues. Otherwise you'll start regularly tomorrow. Miss Hooper will assist you with any questions you might have. I suggest you use the rest of the day to get comfortable.”

Sherlock didn't plan on spending any longer amount of time with his new colleagues than absolutely necessary, and he didn't plan on getting comfortable, either.

“Of course,” he said with a smile. Chapman nodded and left him by himself. Sherlock watched him go until he'd disappeared around the corner. Then he turned around and took out his phone.

_[To: Mycroft]  
Swap Chapman for Captain John Watson as my contact person._

Mycroft's reply was quick and to the point, a mere _Why?_

_[To: Mycroft]  
I'll work better with him. Chapman is an idiot._

_[From: Mycroft]  
He's highly qualified._

_[To: Mycroft]  
And an idiot. Give me John._

A few minutes passed before Mycroft texted again.

_[From: Mycroft]  
He's not involved in an active mission right now._

_[To: Mycroft]  
Perfect. What are you waiting for?_

_[From: Mycroft]  
We'll have to ask him, Sherlock. He does get a say in this._

_[To: Mycroft]  
Hurry up. If I'm to start tomorrow, I need to know who I can turn to._

_[From: Mycroft]  
I'm well aware, Sherlock. I'll let you know when I hear word from 'John'._

Sherlock could almost hear Mycroft delicately pronouncing the word, mocking Sherlock's usage of his first name. He locked his phone without replying and set off to unpack. When he came out of the truly atrocious, claustrophobic shower afterwards, he'd received a new text and an email.

_[From: Mycroft]  
It seems today is your lucky day, brother. I expect according results for the trouble I went through to comply with your wishes._

The email contained contact details for Captain John Hamish Watson, whose status was now active. Sherlock saved his number into his phone, then typed a quick reply.

_[To: Mycroft]  
Naturally._

It was the most Mycroft was going to get out of him.

Sherlock put his phone away and got dressed. Faced with the rest of the evening off, he was starting to become restless. He considered playing the violin, but felt that he was too agitated to focus on it.

A few months ago this state would have already led him to getting a fix. At least the cocaine had stopped the sensation.

Sherlock got up, pacing the room as he deliberately pushed his thoughts in another direction. The idea of taking a walk to explore his new environment crossed his mind, but the base seemed a little too much like a prison for that.

A deep sigh escaped Sherlock. If he'd known that he'd grow this bored within 24 hours, he'd never have taken the job.

Although, rehab was considerably more boring than any of this could be. Not to mention the _indignity_ of it.

Sherlock pushed a hand into his hair and let himself fall onto the narrow bed. He clasped his hands under his chin and closed his eyes, entering his mind palace.

* * *

Sherlock woke up at dawn, long before he had to get ready. He turned off the alarm on his phone, not intending to go back to sleep, and slipped out of bed. A shower and a fresh pair of clothes later he closed the door to his flat behind him, paying a visit to the cafeteria out of a lack of things to do rather than the desire to eat.

He eyed the breakfast selection, deciding to take a trip to the nearest supermarket as soon as possible to stock food he would actually eat in his room. Settling on a yoghurt with fruit and a cup of tea he looked for a table in the corner, glad to be early enough to have most of the cafeteria to himself.

The tea was horrendous, as expected. Sherlock downed half a cup before giving up, swallowing down the artificial 'fruit' yoghurt bit by bit. Glancing at the time, he decided that it was late enough now and left with quick strides, heading for the laboratory.

He hadn't expected anyone else to be working this early, so he was surprised to find a woman already there. She seemed equally as taken aback as she looked up, nearly dropping her pipette. Sherlock recognised her as the woman from the file, Molly Hooper.

“Miss Hooper,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I'm Sherlock Holmes.”

“Oh! Of course, come in! Sorry, I didn't think you'd show up now. I mean, I've been expecting you, just not this early, but that's not a problem at all. I'm Molly, please.”

Sherlock wondered if her flustered demeanour was a regular occurrence, or specifically related to him. The latter would make his work significantly more uncomfortable. He nodded in acknowledgement, then glanced at the petri dish before her.

“Pressing research?” he asked, and Molly looked down with a frown before realising what he meant.

“Oh, no, just something I've been working on. I come here a lot when the others aren't up yet. I mean, they're all lovely, obviously, but sometimes I just like the quiet, you know?”

Sherlock couldn't imagine. “If they were all lovely, I wouldn't be here to investigate which one of them is trading state secrets,” he remarked instead. Molly blinked at him, then nodded.

“Right.”

She returned her attention to the petri dish, adding two drops of the liquid in her pipette before moving to a microscope. Sherlock decided to take stock of the available equipment while the lab wasn't swamped with people. The results were highly satisfying. That was a clear advantage of working for the government, the unrestricted access to chemicals and utensils he'd hardly get his hands on otherwise.

“Remember, I was assigned to help you with a new research project,” Sherlock said when Molly walked past him. “I'm good at my job, but hardly better than average. I don't do anything you haven't told me and mostly stay in the background.” Molly raised her eyebrows. “That's the official version. I thought we should go over it once before our colleagues arrive.”

“Oh, right.”

Sherlock swallowed a sigh. “Tell me about them,” he said. Molly looked at him in confusion.

“Why? Didn't you get a file on everyone?”

“Yes, but I'd rather hear everything from someone who's been working alongside them for a while. It paints a clearer image.”

“Oh, alright. Well, uh, there's twelve of us here. Usually we're thirteen, but Chris is on paternity leave right now. Well, now we're thirteen again.” Molly laughed nervously, keeping her eyes on the slide she was working on as she spoke. “Without you and me, there are eleven left. Um, there's Sophia, for one. Sophia Duster. She works in genetics.”

Genetics, Sherlock understood, was short for genetic engineering research. Including rather questionable projects, as he'd taken from her file.

“She's in her late forties,” Molly continued, narrowing her eyes as she thought. “No kids, never been married, as far as I know. She gets along well enough with most people, but she can be a little demanding.” Sherlock nodded, signing her to continue.

“Then there's Frank and Pablo, both also working in genetics. Frank's rather new here, he only turned up last year, and he's very quiet. We hardly know anything about him. Grew up with his aunt, I think. Pablo has been here for ages, but Sophia's the one in charge.”

“Bad blood between them?” Sherlock asked, and Molly hunched her shoulders.

“I couldn't say, really,” she responded, giving him an apologetic look. Sherlock just waved his hand.

Molly continued, listing all the people he would be working with soon. She mostly added meaningless details, but pointed out a few connections Sherlock hadn't been aware of. He mentally ranked them from most to least suspicious by the facts alone, while preparing himself for slipping into the role of this version of Sherlock Holmes; quiet and average, excited to be here, but modest by nature.

He hoped to be left alone once the novelty of his being there wore off, and it seemed that his wish was granted.

Everyone accepted his role as Molly's quiet assistant, and once the polite small talk died down, he was left to work in peace.

It was almost lunchtime when Sherlock looked up to find John entering the lab, looking around in search.

“Ah, Captain Watson,” he said, straightening. “I was wondering when you'd come looking for me.”

“Oh, none of that. Call me John,” he replied, coming to stand before him. He glanced at the people surrounding them, giving him a questioning look. “Er, could I talk to you for a moment?”

Sherlock looked at Molly for confirmation. She nodded, and he stood up. “After you.”

John turned around when the door swung shut behind them, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock tilted his head.

“You wanted to talk to me?”

John huffed. “Well, yeah. As I'm sure you've been told, I'm your new contact person.”

Sherlock nodded, and John looked at him expectantly. “I don't suppose you have anything to do with that, do you?”

Sherlock quirked his eyebrows. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

John's lips twitched into a half-smile. “I don't know, might have been the fact that the man who contacted me yesterday has the same surname as you and told me that it's been, and I quote,  _specifically requested_ that I take the job.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. “Clever.”

John chuckled, shaking his head. Sherlock eyed him closely. “What?”

“Just, you know what happened to me, these last few months? Nothing. Nothing like that, anyway. I was just here, not really doing anything, just hearing about all the stuff that's going on. And then I met you yesterday, and you told me all these things about myself, and not even twelve hours later I get a call from London, asking me if I'm available to function as a contact in a top secret mission with a fancy name. From the British government. I am now a freelance employee of the bloody British government.”

Sherlock regarded him for a moment before he spoke. “This is what you want, though, isn't it? The thrill of the work. The chase, the problems, the danger. You've missed it, ever since you got shot.”

John licked his lips, holding his gaze steadily. “Observed that, did you?”

“Your shoulder,” Sherlock said, and John glanced down before looking at him again.

“My shoulder?” he repeated, and Sherlock nodded.

“It was stiff yesterday. It isn't now. It's fully healed, the wound was relatively clean, you shouldn't be bothered by it anymore. I'd say it's psychosomatic, as your previous therapist would confirm.”

John shook his head. “How could you possibly know about that therapist I went to?”

“You got shot in the field. Of course you went to see a therapist, if only for a short while.”

John tilted his head. “Fair point. So,” he changed the subject again, “Chapman gave me the file this morning. I've been reading up on it a bit, but I'm not through yet. Should we meet up and talk about it when I'm done?”

There was nothing to talk about yet, Sherlock thought. “Yes,” he agreed without quite knowing why, taking out his phone. He composed a quick text to let John know his number, then sent it. Putting it away again, he said, “You don't live here, do you?”

John shook his head.

“Shame.”

“It's just a twenty minute walk away from the base, though. I can come by anytime, or you can come to me, I suppose.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “You live with your wife. It's better if you come to me.”

John set his jaw, but nodded.

“Right. Well, I'll let you know when I'm through with the file.”

He gave him a quick smile and turned around. Sherlock looked after him for a moment, then schooled his features into a neutral expression and, casting his eyes on the floor, entered the lab again.

* * *

_[To: John]  
I'm done in the lab, you can find me at my room. C2.06. -SH_

_[From: John]  
Not having dinner?_

_[To: John]  
If you can call what they're serving here 'dinner' then I'm not having it, no. -SH_

_[From: John]  
Want me to bring something to eat? I could get takeaway. I haven't eaten yet either. Might get late tonight._

Sherlock considered this. He wasn't particularly hungry after Molly had dragged him to lunch with the others, insisting that he eat to 'keep up his cover of inconspicuousness'. He might still want to have something later, though.

_[To: John]  
Chinese, if convenient. -SH_

_[From: John]_  
_Alright._

_You can stop signing your texts now, I know who you are ;)_

_[To: John]  
Bring fortune cookies._

Sherlock's fingers hovered over the keys, then he put his phone away. He decided to take a quick shower before John arrived, slipping into more comfortable trousers and a shirt afterwards. His hair was still damp when the knock sounded.

John glanced at the unruly mop on his head when he opened the door, then let his eyes move over the length of Sherlock's body.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, looking down at his bare feet. Sherlock wriggled his toes.

“Nope,” he replied, waving him inside.

John stepped in and put the takeaway on the small table. “God, I forgot how small these flats are,” he said, looking around.

“Dreadful,” Sherlock confirmed, pulling out a chair for himself. “Sit wherever you like. The bed might be the most comfortable option.”

John's eyes darted to the bed. “A chair is fine for now,” he said, sitting down.

“Suit yourself.”

“So,” John began, folding his hands. “These documents you're supposed to find. It didn't say a lot about them in the file, but I'm assuming they're very important, yeah?”

“Extremely important, and extremely secret. Even I don't know what's in them. Information from those files getting out could mean war.”

John nodded. “Thought so. And we're sure that someone has stolen them?”

“Quite sure, and it must have been someone from the lab. They all know about the existence of those documents to some extent, and everyone who works there could get access to the data base with little difficulty. Limited access, in some cases, but still.”

“Okay.” John licked his lips. “Tell me about them. Not what it says in their file, what you observed.”

Sherlock hadn't observed much yet, since establishing his cover was a top priority for now, but he gladly launched into the ideas he'd gotten during the day. They talked until John's stomach interrupted them with a loud rumble. He smiled apologetically before calling a break.

“I'm starving,” he said, reaching for the bags he'd brought. “You gonna eat something?”

“Yes,” Sherlock decided.

“Alright. I didn't know what you like, so I brought a bit of everything. We can share.”

They did, eating mostly in silence, interrupted only by a few questions John asked about the suspects as they popped into his head.

“Any leads yet?” he enquired after they'd touched on everyone.

“None so far, but I've only been here one day.” Sherlock pushed his plate away, now empty, eyeing John's spring rolls.

John rolled his eyes, but spiked one with his fork and held it out to him. Sherlock took it with a quick smile and, after biting into it, continued, “It's going to take a while to determine who's involved, but I'm working on it. I'll keep you updated.”

John nodded slowly. “Right.”

Sherlock leaned back, watching him finish his last bite. “Any more questions?”

“Yeah. Why did you want me to bring fortune cookies?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and John chuckled, shrugging slightly. “It's just that I wouldn't have taken you for the type to believe in stuff like that.”

“I don't,” Sherlock said, snatching one from the bag. “I can predict what they say.”

John giggled at that, an unexpectedly high sound. Sherlock blinked at him in surprise, feeling his lips curve into a smile on their own account.

“No, you can't.”

“I sometimes can,” Sherlock amended, cracking his open.

“People are charmed by your personality,” he read, then frowned. “Alright, no, I didn't predict that.”

John smirked, reaching for a cookie as well.

“There is nothing new under the sun,” he read after cracking it open, then chuckled. “See? It's nonsense.”

“I knew that,” Sherlock said seriously. “I knew that it would be nonsense.”

John laughed and shook his head. “You're mad,” he informed him.

“So I've been told.”

John looked at him for a moment, then lowered his gaze. His face was unreadable.

“Well,” he said, stretching his back, “I should probably get going. Thanks for keeping me company during dinner. Much better than eating alone.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “You paid for the food and thank _me_ for eating it with you?”

John chuckled. “Don't worry, you can buy next time.”

Sherlock, ignoring the way his insides curled in anticipation at the prospect of _next time_ , only said, “Deal.”

He walked John to the door, finding himself actually regretting that John was leaving. He didn't know what to do with that feeling, so he merely held open the door.

“Text me if something comes up,” John said, turning around again when he'd stepped outside. “Or, you know, just whenever.” He gave Sherlock a wide smile, one he returned without even thinking about it.

“I'll see you around,” he said with a nod, and watched John walk away. Then he shut the door with a click that sounded too loud in the echoing silence of his flat.

Sherlock let out a deep breath, then shook himself and went to clean the table before slipping into the bathroom. Though he didn't intend to sleep yet he settled on his bed, busying himself with the file he'd grabbed from the table.

If John slipped into his thoughts more often than expected, he figured that it hardly meant anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- any details about any British military bases, people being used as a contact person, or conflicts in Estonia are made up. If something is completely off, you may consider it artistic freedom :)  
> \- John's fortune cookie saying "There is nothing new under the sun" is a detail from his blog post of the first night he spent with Sherlock


	2. Chapter 2

Despite his high resistance to effects of sleep deprivation, Sherlock didn't slip into his new rhythm as fast as he would have liked. It wasn't the lack of sleep, or even the getting up at inhumane hours. It was the prospect of routine that put him off. He wouldn't have minded so much if he'd get to do work that fit his qualifications, but the Sherlock Holmes he was here didn't have those, which meant that his job was just tedious. Predictable. Boring.

At least he'd get to work on putting his plan into action today. Molly greeted him with a small smile when he arrived, pushing a petri dish over to him.

“Do this today.” She offered no further explanation. Sherlock eyed the supplies, then nodded once. They worked in silence for a while. Sherlock used the time to keep an eye on his colleagues, working out the best approach.

“Do you have a plan yet?” Molly mumbled, her eyes flickering over to him as she reached past him for a bottle.

“Already working on it,” Sherlock replied in a low voice. “Stage one, get to know the enemy.”

He put down his gloves before walking over to Pablo, who was working on his own a few feet away.

“Hey,” Sherlock said, giving a shy smile when Pablo looked up. “Pablo, was it?”

“That's right,” he confirmed, giving him a curious look.

Sherlock fidgeted a little. “I was just wondering, uh, you work in genetics, right?”

Pablo tilted his head. “I do. You're interested?”

Sherlock nodded avidly. “Definitely,” he said, his voice full of enthusiasm. “I thought about taking that path, actually, but never got around to it. I thought I'd ask, since I'm not doing much more than assisting Molly, whether I can look over your shoulder a little?”

He schooled his features into a hopeful look, his eyes slightly widened, and Pablo reacted to it right away.

“Well, I don't mind either way- Sherlock?” Sherlock nodded. “I don't mind, Sherlock,” he repeated, “but you might be better off asking Sophia. She's my superior.” 

 _Interesting choice of words,_ Sherlock noted.

“I know, but I thought...” He dropped his voice a little. “Well, I wanted to ask you first, since, you know, you've been here much longer than her. Molly mentioned it yesterday,” he added when he saw Pablo raising an eyebrow.

“Right,” he said. “Well, if you aren't going to disturb me while I'm working I don't see why not. Just stay clear of the red area.” He gesticulated towards the restricted part of the lab, which Sherlock was perfectly equipped to handle. He nodded fervently.

“Of course. That's so nice, thank you, really. I appreciate that so much.”

The corner of Pablo's mouth quirked up in a genuine smile. “Not a problem, Sherlock.”

Sherlock turned around, pleased with himself. That had gone better than expected. He returned to his station by Molly's side, calculating the best time to approach Pablo again. He'd try the next day, for a short while at least. He was still in the early stages, and establishing his cover was of the utmost importance. Nothing good would come out of rushing things.

During his break Sherlock got his phone out, composing a text to John without the risk of anyone who wasn't Molly looking over his shoulder.

_[To: John]  
Where can I get a board, markers in five different colours, and pins around here?_

He knew that he could probably find out on his own, or ask Molly. But John had told him to text whenever, and he _was_ looking forward to hearing from him again. He hadn't gotten a reply by the end of his break, however, and so he sighed and went back to work.

He managed to exchange a few words with a man called Adem, who seemed rather excited about the fact that Sherlock had previously been in London.

“I've never been,” he said, his accent weak, but noticeable. “I've always wanted to, though.”

Sherlock allowed himself to think back for a split moment. The memories of traffic noises, of cabs and buses and people, mixed with flashes of small plastic bags in crowded clubs or empty street corners, flashes of a wonderful, terrifying high and the shocking aftermath washed over him, nearly overwhelming him with their intensity. He fought it down, decidedly pushing the memories away, ignoring the longing they ignited in his chest.

“It's rather beautiful,” he said, not quite managing to raise his gaze. His voice didn't betray his inner tumult. “You should visit it one day, if you get the chance.”

He stepped back to his station then, deciding that this was quite enough for one day.

He continued working on his own until the door to the lab opened. Sherlock only looked up when the person came to stand right before him. He straightened his back, a pleasant wave of surprise rushing through him. “John.”

John gave him a brief smile. “Hey.”

“I didn't know if you were coming by today,” Sherlock said, lowering his voice in an attempt to keep the conversation somewhat private. “You didn't respond to my text.”

“Yeah, I know, sorry. I was busy.”

Sherlock frowned, but said nothing. “Have you read it?” he asked instead.

“Yeah. I'll get you what you asked for by tomorrow."

Sherlock nodded in satisfaction. John looked at him, pursing his lips before he spoke again. “You still up for dinner?”

Sherlock gave him a look. “Unless the cafeteria has drastically improved since yesterday morning, I am up for dinner every night.” Especially with you, he didn't add.

“Alright, well, that's good. Great.” John licked his lips. “There's a nice Italian restaurant not far from the base, if you're in the mood to go out?”

Sherlock nodded. “Sure. Text me the address?”

“Actually, I thought I'd come and pick you up so we can walk together. It's half an hour from here.”

“Alright.”

John smiled at him. “Great. See you later, then. Around seven's okay?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

John left, looking as pleased as Sherlock felt. He saw Molly's eyes on him and returned his attention to his tasks, but the work was routine, easy, and his mind inevitably wandered to John.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time anyone had been pleased to have dinner with him. He wasn't convinced that it had ever happened at all. Not even with Mycroft, who insisted on obligatory dinners at entirely too regular intervals for Sherlock's taste.

To his surprise, it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth twitching and allowed himself a small moment of anticipation before forcing his thoughts back to the substance in front of him.

* * *

“Is this restaurant actually good, or is it just the best possible choice within a radius of a hundred miles?”

John snorted. “You know we're not actually in the middle of nowhere, right? The base is just a bit secluded, that's all. But anyway, I'm not taking you to a shabby pub just because it's nearby. It's a nice place.”

Sherlock gave an unconvinced hum, but he caught John smiling from the corner of his eye.

They continued walking in silence, and Sherlock pondered John's choice of words. _Taking him_ to the restaurant seemed to suggest this dinner being more meaningful than he'd thought. Did John feel obligated to buy him dinner, invite him somewhere nice, because he'd helped him to this job? Or did he merely mean that he was accompanying him there? Surely he wasn't foolish enough to believe that he'd have to bribe Sherlock with invitations.

Either way, he found that he rather liked the idea of being taken to a nice restaurant by John Watson, for whatever reason. He didn't want to ponder on it, instead focusing on the company he was actually enjoying.

The restaurant did look nice, if a little packed. Sherlock supposed that it was only a testament to John's promise that the food was good. The waiter guided them to a table by the window, dropping two menus on it before returning with a candle. John blinked at it.

“What do you recommend?” Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes as he scanned the menu.

“Depends on how hungry you are,” John said, leaning over the table. “See, these are normal sizes,” he explained, pointing at the upper half of the card, “but these are massive. As in, I can't finish them in one go. They let you take the rest home, though.”

Sherlock nodded, his eyes catching on where John's finger rested on the menu. But then he withdrew his hand and sat back, and Sherlock blinked.

“I think I'm actually quite hungry,” he announced, settling on gnocchi with green pesto. John chose the _Rigatoni al Forno_.

“Wine?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded slowly. He didn't usually drink without occasion, but then again, he didn't usually go out for dinner with someone who was pleased to have him there. Wine was appropriate, he decided.

“I should take you here more often, if it gets you to eat,” John remarked.

“I do eat sometimes,” Sherlock said, giving him a look.

John chuckled. “See, things like that make me worried that you don't, in fact, actually eat. _Sometimes._ ” He shook his head, then glanced at Sherlock through his lashes. “I take it you don't have a girlfriend back home who feeds you up?”

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise at the sudden question. Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, “Is that what girlfriends do? Feed you up?”

“Sometimes.” John pursed his lips. “So you don't have a girlfriend, then.”

Sherlock was getting the strange feeling that this wasn't the casual question John made it out to be. He wasn't entirely out of the loop when it came to social cues, despite of what his brother thought, and the enquiry struck him as quite insistent.

“No, not really my area.”

“Ah.” John paused, his tongue darting out. “Boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.”

Sherlock held his gaze. “I know it's fine. But no.”

John licked his lips, nodding slightly. “Right.”

Their food arrived that moment, saving Sherlock from having to start an awkward 'I'm not sure whether you just propositioned me but I consider myself married to my work and anyway, I thought you were married to an actual person' conversation. It also saved him from having to examine why exactly he felt strangely flattered by the thought of John taking an interest in him.

John hadn't promised too much, the food _was_ delicious. Sherlock's hunger flared up as he swallowed the first bite and he dug into his gnocchi, glad to have ordered the large plate.

“If you're worried about feeding me up, you can take me here anytime,” he declared, smiling when John flashed him a grin at that.

“I'll take you up on that,” he warned, giving him an amused look. “If nobody else is doing it.”

“Well,” Sherlock pointed out, “your wife isn't quite feeding you up either, if you having dinner with me two nights in a row is any indication, so you're one to talk.”

He looked up when John didn't respond, raising an eyebrow. John gave him a quick smile, then reached for his wine.

“I'm quite good at feeding myself,” he said, downing a huge sip. Sherlock's eyes remained on him for a moment before he lowered them to his plate again.

“You know, your brother called me earlier today,” John remarked after a few moments of silence, changing the topic.

Sherlock stopped his fork halfway to his mouth, dropping his hand again. “What did he want?” he asked, his eyes narrowing. “It wasn't about the job. What did he say to you?”

“How do you know it wasn't about the job?”

“Apart from the fact that _I_ didn't get a call from him, you would have told me already if there were any news.”

“Fair point,” John admitted. “Well, he didn't say all that much, really. Told me to make sure you didn't 'spiral out of control', whatever that's supposed to mean. Um. I'm probably breaking the Official Secrets Act by telling you this, but I thought you should know. He asked me to keep an eye on you in exchange for a, what did he say, _considerably larger salary._ ”

Sherlock stared at him with his jaw clenched. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, then snatched his phone from his pocket.

_[To: Mycroft]  
Stop pestering John IMMEDIATELY. I am not out of control. I mean it. Stop._

He barely resisted writing in all caps, knowing that it would paint him as childish. John was leaning back in his seat when he looked up, giving him a questioning look.

Sherlock smiled tightly. “Family business.”

“You don't get along, I take it?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

John shrugged a little, rubbing his eye. “Even if that hadn't been quite as clear, I know the signs, is all.”

Sherlock hummed, reaching for his phone when his text alert sounded.

_[From: Mycroft]  
I was making a generous offer, not pestering him. An offer he didn't take, might I add. He's very loyal very quickly, your John._

_You know your wellbeing is of the utmost importance to me._

Sherlock gritted his teeth.

_[To: Mycroft]  
Piss off._

He slid his phone back into his pocket, deliberately pushing all thoughts of Mycroft to the back of his mind. So typical of him, to get a rise out of Sherlock even from hundreds of miles away.

“Sorry,” he said, still frowning in annoyance. “He won't be bothering you again.” He tilted his head. “Although you should have taken his offer. This meal could have been on him.”

John huffed out a laugh at that and Sherlock allowed himself to relax.

“Mycroft is a meddling pain in the arse,” he said, the words giving him a grim sort of satisfaction. John snorted.

“I got that impression,” he affirmed. “I suppose strong personalities run in the family.”

Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eye, but John was smiling.

“I suppose,” he conceded, wrinkling his nose. John chuckled.

“My sister's like that, too,” he said, shaking his head slightly. “Stubborn as hell. Never met anyone else as bullheaded as her.” His eyes darted to Sherlock's face and his lips twitched. “Well.”

Sherlock huffed, but found himself smiling as well. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Sure you don't. I'm not saying it's bad, anyway. It's good, knowing what you want. Not letting anyone tell you otherwise.”

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that, nor what to make of the warm feeling spreading in him at the fond look John was giving him.

“Dessert?” he asked, and John nodded.

“Definitely,” he said, holding his gaze. Licking his lips, he asked, “Share?”

* * *

The taste of the tiramisu, along with John's cheeky smiles and lingering gazes, were still sharp in Sherlock's mind the next morning. They'd stayed far longer than he'd intended to, getting caught up in their conversation. John had seemed in no rush to get home, and neither of them had been inclined to cut the evening short.

He found himself unable to fall asleep despite the rich meal and the wine, memories of the evening playing in his mind on repeat. He'd almost regretted having let the dinner end, remembering that people didn't do these things with him, that _he_ didn't do these things with others, and it was only the thought of seeing John again today that kept Sherlock from slipping into a dark mood as he made his way to the lab.

He was early again. Molly was already there, as he'd hoped, bustling through the lab on her own, and Sherlock cleared his mind of all thoughts about tiramisu and John and the pleasant tingle of anticipation in his stomach.

“I started ranking the suspects,” he said, and Molly nearly jumped. She turned around, a hand on her chest.

“Oh god, sorry, you startled me!”

Sherlock frowned and she explained, “It's just, I'm usually always on my own this early, because the others don't come in until nine.”

Ignoring her statement, Sherlock said, “I need you to tell me more about the suspects."

She nodded. “Right. I'll do what I can.”

“Masha Bershov.”

“Immunobiology research,” Molly stated. “Been here for a little longer than me, I think.”

“How does she interact with the rest of the team?”

“Um, she's nice. Friendly with everyone, but I don't think she's really close to any of us. Well, she and Ted seemed to be friends some time ago, but that didn't work out.”

“A fight?”

“No, they just drifted apart again from what I know. What else- well, there's the language barrier, that might be why she's mostly on her own.”

Sherlock frowned. “She must be fluent in English, or else she wouldn't have gotten this job.”

“She is, in her area, at least. Knows terms I've never even heard of. But normal conversations don't seem to be as easy for her, I don't know. She's a little shy, I think, that probably makes it harder. I've never really talked to her for a longer amount of time.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “The documents involve terminology that she's not familiar with, but she wouldn't need to understand them in order to sell them.”

“That's true,” Molly acknowledged, her brows furrowed. Sherlock regarded her closely.

“You don't think she's the one,” he observed. Molly shook her head.

“No, it's just, I mean, I can't really know, can I, and I know that acting nice doesn't mean that someone actually _is_ nice-”

Sherlock was beginning to wonder whether she would find an end to that sentence when she took a deep breath and finished on, “I just find it hard to believe that she'd go around searching the database in the first place, with all that lingo on all the things we work on here.”

Sherlock nodded again. “Good point,” he conceded, mentally ranking her lower. “Tell me about Ted.”

“Ted is... a bit strange, actually,” Molly said, letting out a nervous laugh. “Um, he's the oldest after Sophia, been working here for over ten years, I think.”

“Strange in what way, exactly?”

“His humour, it's a bit... off. He's often a little offensive without- well, I do think he realises, he just doesn't care.”

“Do the others feel that way as well?”

“Mostly, yes. I mean, Masha tried, like I said, but that didn't go anywhere.”

The door opened and Molly fell silent when two of their colleagues walked in. Sherlock mentally slipped into character before their eyes fell on him.

“Morning,” Thomas greeted them, raising his eyebrows. “Don't tell me you're an early riser too, Sherlock. You two are a match!”

Claire chuckled and Molly joined in, a faint blush rising in her cheeks. Sherlock suppressed a frown.

They worked in comfortable silence for the most part, which Sherlock was grateful for, since it allowed him to analyse his colleagues' behaviour and adjust the mental ranking while he performed the basic tasks.

He went over to Pablo a while before lunch, pretending to be interested in the work he was doing. Pablo didn't seem to mind the odd question here or there, always replying elaborately. His facial expression didn't give anything away when Sherlock mentioned Sophia, nor when she asked him to take over one of the new studies they were to conduct.

“Sorry, top secret,” he said, smiling at Sherlock. “I'll let you know when you can look over my shoulder again.”

Sherlock nodded and retreated to his station, ranking Pablo lower on the list.

When it was time for lunch and everyone else had left, he approached Molly again.

“I need more on Emma and Claire. And I've yet to see Marina, is her absence normal?”

“Oh, yeah, Marina is on leave right now. Her dad's sick, she took a few days off to go and see him.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Sick? Expensive hospital bills? In desperate need of costly medicine?”

Molly hunched her shoulders. “Possibly. Probably, I mean, all things considered. I don't know if she'd have to steal state secrets to pay for it, we're not very close. But it's possible.”

“Either way, it's worth looking into.”

They both looked up when the door opened, and Sherlock straightened upon seeing who had come in.

“John,” he said, smiling.

John smiled at him in return. “Hi.” He looked at Molly. “Hey, Molly. How are you doing?”

“I'm fine, thanks! And you?”

“Oh, you know.” He waved his hand. “The usual.” He returned his attention to Sherlock, who asked, “What are you doing here?”

John shrugged. “I had nothing to do, so I thought I'd come by, see if you're busy.”

“Mary's not home?” Molly asked, and John's lips tightened briefly before he said, “She's away at the moment.”

“Oh! That's sad for you,” Molly remarked sympathetically, and John looked a little pained.

“I'm alright on my own,” he said.

Sherlock watched him give a tight smile with a frown. This wasn't the only time John had reacted this way to the mention of his wife. His eyes moved over him, trying to gather information. He came up with nothing. He tucked the question away for later and cleared his throat into the brief silence.

Sensing that a change of topic would be appreciated, he said, “We're not really busy. We were just talking about the mission, actually.”

John listened up. “Any developments?”

“Nothing definite. I'm making progress on the preliminary ranking. After that it's a simple process of elimination.”

“Simple,” Molly echoed beside him, quirking an eyebrow as she gave John an amused smile. John grinned.

“Well, for him, maybe.” He caught Sherlock's eyes. “Which is probably why they brought you in, since none of us mere mortals can figure it out. We can't all be as luminous as you, with your magic deductions.”

Sherlock huffed, but couldn't help feeling chuffed by John's words. Judging by the smirk he was displaying, it didn't go unnoticed.

“It's not a magic trick, it's science. Did you get me the things I asked for?” he said, changing the topic again. John nodded.

“I told Chapman, he'll have everything delivered to your flat later today.”

Sherlock nodded in appreciation. “Good, that's-”

He broke off, staring into space for a moment. He vaguely registered John exchanging a look with Molly, calling his name several times before he reacted. “Chapman,” he repeated.

“Yeah, I asked him, that's... wait, what are you on about?”

Sherlock shook his head, taking a step forward. He was standing directly before John, who had to tilt his head to get a look at his face.

“John! That is brilliant, that is _fantastic_ – oh, you might not be the most luminous of people, but as a conductor of light you are indispensable.”

John blinked at him in surprise. “Thanks,” he said slowly, frowning. “I think. Right, what did I do that was so bloody stimulating?”

“Chapman, John!” Sherlock looked at him expectantly, turning to Molly when John returned the look blankly. Molly shook her head as well, blinking at him.

“What about him?”

“Don't you see? We completely forgot about him! He has a leading position. He's familiar with the lab, the employees, the database. He's informed about confidential projects going on behind closed doors as much as any of the suspects. We assumed that the perpetrator had to be from inside the lab, but knowing of the existence of such plans would be enough!”

John gaped at him. He shook his head slowly. “Brilliant,” he breathed out, and Sherlock's thoughts came to a halt. He blinked down at John, who was gracing him with a disbelieving smile.

“You think so?”

“Of course I do. That's bloody amazing. Chapman, I never would have suspected him.”

“He might be innocent,” Sherlock pointed out.

“And he might not,” John said.

“Wow,” Molly mumbled beside them, and Sherlock was suddenly reminded of her presence. “What do you suggest we do?”

“Put him on the list. Investigate him.”

John nodded slowly. “Top priority?”

“Not yet. I want to look into two people from the lab first, see if I can find a connection there. Chapman will get suspicious if I start pestering him so soon after my arrival. I'll have to look for information very discreetly. It has to be slowly, gently.”

John stayed for the remainder of lunch break, soon drifting to different topics with Molly, but Sherlock felt his gaze on him more times than he cared to count. It wasn't an unpleasant feeling at all. He disappeared before the others returned, asking about dinner for the next day on his way out. Sherlock, trying not to let his disappointment show, nodded and watched him leave.

Then Molly started chatting with him instead, and Sherlock braced himself for a long afternoon. He skipped dinner, not seeing the appeal without John, and instead retreated to his room as soon as circumstances allowed. After receiving his promised materials he took a thorough shower, and then began setting up a board on his brittle wall.

* * *

Some days, Sherlock knew, just dragged on forever. He had already woken up in a bad mood, itching with impatience for something to happen, anything - he'd been here for over a week now and still nothing - and a craving he didn't want to name, lest it got worse.

He tried to busy himself in the lab, but the plain tasks didn't hold his attention. Upon returning to his room he scowled at the papers covering his room, then dropped onto the bed and scowled at the ceiling instead. He reached for his phone, typing out a quick text.

_[To: John]  
Bored._

_John. I'm bored._

When there was no reply he huffed, resisting the urge to chuck his phone across the room. He knew that the agitation he felt was rooted in something much deeper than simple boredom, that, if he were in London, he'd be on his way to the nearest drug dealer by now. He folded his hands together, closing his eyes to enter his mind palace in search of a distraction.

He didn't know how much time had passed when a knock on the door ripped him from his thoughts. He considered not opening, but then heaved himself up with a sigh. When he saw who it was, he was glad for the decision.

“John.”

“Hey. You busy?”

“Nope.” He held the door open wider. “Come in.”

“Thanks.”

John took the state of the room in with a raise of his eyebrows, tentatively touching a few papers before glancing back at Sherlock.

“You sure I'm not interrupting anything?”

“Oh, please,” Sherlock huffed. “I've hit a dead end. The alternative is getting back to work and I _really_ don't think I can handle that right now, so feel free to stay.”

“Your job's that bad?” John asked, looking at him in surprise as he sat down.

“It's tedious,” Sherlock said, his brows knitted. He pulled out a chair as well, slumping onto it. “If I'd wanted to spend my days working in some boring government facility, I would have done so.”

“But you really are a chemist,” John pointed out. “And you're working in a lab. It can't be that bad, can it?”

“It's more than _bad,_ John, it's horrendous. I'm not here for the chemistry, I'm here for the mystery, and if it was up to me I wouldn't be here at all.”

Silence reigned between them for a moment, and Sherlock could hear John shifting in his seat.

“Sherlock, can I just ask,” John started, waiting until he met his gaze. “What did your brother mean when he called me, you getting out of control? I'm assuming he sent you here, if you didn't take this mission voluntarily.”

Sherlock exhaled a deep breath, swallowing around the dryness in his mouth. “It was his idea that I come here,” he confirmed, looking at John as he flatly continued, “It was this or rehab.”

John blinked, but nodded slowly. “Drugs?”

“Cocaine.” Sherlock got up to pace the room, but the flat was too narrow to satisfy him. He turned back around, fixing John with a stare. “I'm three months clean. I don't know where to get drugs around here. I could find out, but I won't. I'm clean,” he repeated. John listened to him, holding his gaze without faltering.

“Okay,” he said when he fell silent. “Okay.”

Sherlock blinked at him.

“That's great,” John continued with a half-shrug, and Sherlock was surprised by his genuine tone. “Three months is a long time, I mean.”

He didn't sound particularly enthusiastic, and maybe it was that, the utter lack of condescendence, stated like it was a mere fact, that persuaded Sherlock to take him at his word. To feel, just this once, like it was true.

He swallowed. “Yes.”

John seemed to understand what he'd actually meant to say, just waving his hand in acknowledgement.

“No progress here?” he asked with a glance at his wall, to change the topic or due to genuine interest, Sherlock didn't know. “Looks like you've done quite a lot of thinking.”

“It's just suspicions about loose ends and unfounded theories. There's not enough data.”

John hummed, and then, instead of going into any of the theories, turned to Sherlock and asked, “You up for a walk?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “We can get takeaway after,” John added with a smile, and Sherlock only took a moment to decide. He nodded, glancing down at himself.

“I need to get dressed,” he said, and John chuckled.

“You should probably do that,” he agreed.

Once Sherlock emerged from the bedroom they set off, walking side by side in comfortable silence. It had cooled down noticeably during the evening, and the brisk night air freshened Sherlock immediately. His mind felt clearer, and he found it a lot easier to focus on John rather than the turmoil inside him.

“My sister's an alcoholic,” John said out of the blue after a while, and Sherlock turned his head to look at him. He didn't speak, waiting for him to continue.

John was clearly deep in thought. A crease appeared on his forehead as he talked. “She's been drinking for years now. It wasn't always this bad, but by now it's just- she's lost control.”

He shook his head, turning to hold Sherlock's gaze. “I'm just telling you this because you're nothing like her. Right now, at least, you don't strike me as being even close to losing control. I can't know for sure, of course, but if you're telling me you're fine, then I believe you.”

They continued walking in silence for a moment. Sherlock turned his words over in his mind, trying to make sense of them.

“Why?” he asked eventually. John didn't look at him, pursing his lips as he stared ahead.

“You're the most honest person I know,” he said, “and for some reason I trust you.”

What an odd thing to say to someone you'd only known for two weeks, Sherlock thought. And yet, the words rang true. He knew that he felt that way, too. He'd trusted John immediately, almost implicitly. Enough to keep him by his side, without any rational explanation for wanting to do so.

Sherlock had never been prone to irrational decisions. But he'd never been prone to finding people who understood him and liked spending time with him, either.

“I wouldn't lie to you,” Sherlock said, still not understanding why.

John gave him a half-smile. “I didn't think you would.”

Curious, how familiar they'd gotten with each other in so short a time. Curious, and intriguing. Fascinating.

“That's something really valuable, honesty,” John spoke into the silence, and the trace of bitterness in his voice made Sherlock listen up. “Rare, too. I appreciate it.”

“I do, too,” Sherlock replied. He hesitated, wondering if asking who had betrayed John's trust was out of line, but then John was already speaking again and he let it slide.

“If you ever want to talk, you know, if you're struggling with that, feel free to. Not for your brother. Just for me.”

Sherlock considered this, considered his own reaction, the lack of an urge to tell him to piss off and mind his own business. “I'll keep it in mind,” he said eventually, and John smiled.

“Great. So, how about that takeaway?”

Sherlock gladly went along with the change of topic. “Do they even deliver to people in here?”

“It's not a prison,” John reminded him, amusement clear on his features. “But I can go meet them at the gate to save them the hassle.”

“Thai, then,” Sherlock decided, raising a challenging eyebrow. John, somehow knowing exactly what he was doing, gave him a smug smile.

“There _is_ a place nearby that delivers. Nearby meaning within 90 minutes, but still. Not the middle of nowhere,” he said, and Sherlock huffed, but felt a smile tugging at his lips.

The Thai was certainly worth the wait, not quite up to London's standards, but John's presence made up for it.

It was strange, Sherlock mused, how fast he'd gotten used to having dinner with John. How familiar and normal swapping and sharing their food felt. Sherlock picked bits from John's plate without asking, knowing that John would help himself to something from his in return.

Even more curious was the tingling sensation spreading on his skin where John brushed him as he did so, and how Sherlock could still feel his warmth there, minutes later.

“If we continue this you won't need to worry about feeding me up anymore by the end of the week,” Sherlock groaned, rubbing his stomach. John was stretched out on his chair, giving him an amused look over their empty boxes on the table.

“That's good. I don't plan on stopping this, at any rate.”

Sherlock caught his eye, feeling his lips curving into a genuine smile. “No,” he agreed, “neither do I.”

John smiled at him. He shifted his legs, his foot brushing Sherlock's in the process. Neither of them moved away. Sherlock was hyper-conscious of the narrow space between them, the point where their bodies touched, how their knees bracketed each other. He knew that John was aware of it too, could read it in the line of his shoulders, the intensity of his gaze on him.

The food had left him feeling warm and content, and the missing documents felt far away, London and Mycroft and even the cocaine too. John kept smiling at him over the table, his tongue darting out to lick over his lips, and for that one moment, Sherlock couldn't possibly think of anywhere else he'd rather be.


	3. Chapter 3

Nearing three weeks at the base, Sherlock was starting to grow dangerously bored. There was a frustrating lack of developments, and the ever-tedious routine of his job drove him out of his mind. The time he spent with John was anything but boring - he'd been surprised to discover that neither of them seemed to grow tired of the other, even after weeks of spending every evening in each other's company. But John couldn't stay with him while he was at work without drawing attention to himself, and so the days remained uneventful and bleak.

Though Sherlock had been able to take two suspects off the list – Emma Jones hadn't had access to the database yet when the documents had been taken, Thomas Mendley had been on vacation at the time – he felt like he hadn't actually come any closer to the answer. He'd hit a dead end with the remaining suspects, unable to investigate any further without attracting attention. Especially when it came to Chapman.

Sherlock half cursed himself for having given up his connection to the man, but couldn't bring himself to regret it, as he'd gotten John instead, and he found that he wouldn't give him up even for the solution of the mission. He'd proved to be rather... invaluable, in several aspects.

A perfect opportunity for that particular problem presented itself only two days later, however, when Sherlock overheard Chapman mentioning an overnight trip he was about to leave for. Careful not to give away that he'd listened he walked on, going all the way to his flat before halting.

John wasn't with him – an annoying inconvenience, as John was always with him when he wasn't working these days – and so he took out his phone, calling instead of texting for once. John picked up on the second ring.

“Sherlock? You alright?”

“Better than alright. How fast can you get here?”

He didn't tell him what had happened over the phone, instead asking him to come over. He texted Molly while he waited, letting her know that he'd be unable to come to work.

John arrived not long after that, his flushed cheeks and wind-tousled hair showing that he'd hurried to get to him. “What happened?” he asked breathlessly. “What couldn't you tell me over the phone?”

“Come with me,” Sherlock said, stepping into the hall and closing the door behind him. “We're going to Chapman's office.”

“Okay,” John said, following after him. “Why?”

“Because he just left for a short trip.” Sherlock stopped walking when he heard John's footsteps faltering behind him.

“Wait,” he hissed, grabbing his elbow. “When you say we're going to his office, you mean we're going to _break into_ his office?”

“Precisely.”

John shut his eyes. “Oh my god.” His hand fell from Sherlock's arm, which Sherlock took as a sign to resume walking.

“We won't get caught,” he assured him, and John huffed out a laugh.

“Yeah, right. Breaking into an office in a bloody military base. No big deal.”

“I won't let us get caught,” Sherlock repeated. “Trust me.”

“I think I remember something about slowly, gently,” John muttered. Sherlock impatiently waved his hand.

“Forget slowly. This is an opportunity we won't get again. We have to do it now, or we'll regret it later. Now come on, it's time.”

John gritted his teeth, but followed without a word. They waited behind a corner until the hall was clear, then stepped in front of the door to Chapman's office.

“So how do you plan on-” John began, then stopped when he saw Sherlock expertly picking the lock with a pin. “Of course you know how to pick a lock,” he muttered, and Sherlock's lips twitched. He smiled in satisfaction when the door unlocked with a familiar click.

“Inside, quickly,” he mumbled, stepping in after John. John looked around the office, then turned back to Sherlock. His eyes fell on the alarm device next to the door.

“You need a code,” John realised, giving him a worried look.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed and entered it. The green light blinked and he shut the door without a sound, then turned to him again. John gaped at him.

“Never mind the fact that we just broke into a military office, or that you know how to pick locks, how the _hell_ did you know Chapman's code?”

“I remembered the last three digits from when I came here with him and caught a glimpse of the code over his shoulder. The first one is obvious from the device itself."

“Obvious,” John echoed, blinking at the device, then at Sherlock. “Explain.”

“See the keys? If you look closely, you can make out the one I pressed first by the fingerprint I left behind. It's strongest on the first key, as the film on my skin wears off every time I press another one. I figured out the first key Chapman presses when he comes in the same way.”

“How did you know he hadn't wiped it?”

“He doesn't strike me as a particularly cleanly man,” Sherlock said. John shook his head.

“We broke into this office on the assumption that the owner isn't very cleanly,” he summarised, and Sherlock nodded. “Right.”

“Come now, we shouldn't linger here for too long. Don't touch anything without gloves.”

“Wasn't going to,” John muttered, sighing when Sherlock pushed a pair into his hands. Then he took out a cloth, wiping the alarm device.

“Aren't you going to put on gloves?”

“I don't need any.”

“Of course you don't,” John remarked. Sherlock almost smiled at that. His eyes moved over the shelves, coming to rest on a series of folders. He tilted his head to scan the labels, quickly determining the relevant ones.

“Can you go through the red folder? And the external account one?”

John nodded, stepping closer. “What are we looking for?”

“Anything out of the ordinary. Something that isn't filed away where it belongs, something that doesn't make sense, that could be a code.”

“Right, that's not unspecific at all.”

Sherlock didn't respond, turning to the desk instead. He started the laptop, going through the drawer as it booted. Between a box of mints, several empty notepads and a photograph of Chapman with a woman – _ex-wife, mother of his son, complicated relationship_ – he only found two folders, each containing accounting plans that appeared, as far as Sherlock could tell, completely ordinary. He hadn't expected anything in a place so obvious anyway. He shut the drawer.

“Anything?” he asked, and John shook his head.

“Seems real to me,” he said, his tongue darting out in concentration.

“Keep looking,” Sherlock told him. He went down on one knee, gazing underneath the desk. He moved his hand over the surface to check for hidden holes. Then he reached for the rubbish bin, peeking inside.

Beneath some shards from a broken glass were a few sheets of paper ripped in half. Sherlock sighed and reached inside, taking the biggest piece of glass into his hand to get to the papers.

“I don't think there's anything in here, but you can never be too-”

He hissed when the shard slipped through his fingers, cutting his skin open in an even line before he had the chance to react. John's head shot up at the sound. He was by his side in a second, taking Sherlock's hand in his before the pain even registered.

“Oh,” Sherlock said as the blood started dripping, then began to flow, holding out his other hand reflexively to catch it.

“Shit,” John muttered, turning his hand to get a better look. “It's quite deep. We have to get this cleaned and dressed. Come on.”

“I need to finish this first,” Sherlock argued, gritting his teeth. “I won't get access to his office again, the code changes every month.”

John let out a deep breath, but didn't argue. “I'll dress it provisionally,” he said in a tone that allowed no disagreement. Sherlock nodded. John reached for a box of tissues, pushing a handful into his palm.

“Press,” he told him before taking out a few more. He ripped them into stripes, then knotted them together quickly. The cut would still bleed through, but it would do for the time being.

“Clever,” Sherlock commented.

“I was a soldier in Afghanistan,” John replied evenly, “I know how to make do.”

He took the soaked tissues from Sherlock, dabbing at the wound before wrapping the bandage around his palm. He worked efficiently, but the touch of his fingers was gentle. Sherlock suddenly found it rather hard to breathe, the sound of John's and his mixed breaths the only noise in the room. He watched John's face as he worked, the focus of his eyes and the lines on his forehead, deepened in concentration, and when he looked up, their eyes met.

“Done,” John said quietly, removing his fingers from Sherlock's a moment later. Sherlock curled them around the empty air reflexively, blinking a few times. He cleared his throat.

“Thank you.”

John straightened and he mentally shook himself, gathering the tissues and the shard he'd cut himself with in his left hand, keeping the injured one as still as possible.

“No good leaving my DNA in here,” he said, then sat down in Chapman's chair. John finished checking the folders as he inserted his flash drive, typing away on the keyboard before sitting back.

“Did you gather his password from your last visit here too?” John asked, stepping behind him. His hand came up to the backrest, sitting inches from Sherlock's head.

“No, but I got a flash drive with a special programme from Mycroft the last time I visited him,” Sherlock said with a smirk. “It detects the password for me. Saves time.”

John huffed out a laugh. “Saves time,” he repeated, shaking his head. “You'll never stop impressing me, will you?”

Sherlock turned his head to look up at him. “Would you want me to?”

John met his eyes, and the air grew heavy between them as they looked at each other, neither of them speaking a word.

“No,” John said eventually, much more serious than the lighthearted question warranted. Sherlock swallowed, his lips parting slightly as they continued staring at each other. For once John was above him, causing Sherlock to look up. The different perspective seemed to provide endless new insight on the composition of John's features, and Sherlock would have been content to continue looking at him for a long time, committing the details of his face to memory.

The laptop pinged and John jumped, blinking repeatedly as he licked his lips, his eyes shifting to the laptop. Sherlock looked away and swallowed again, and John cleared his throat. “So what are you doing now?” he asked.

“Transferring the contents of his hard disk onto my flash drive."

“Ah. Untraceable, I assume.”

“Naturally.”

They waited for the transfer to finish, then turned off the laptop again. Sherlock tucked the flash drive into his pocket before standing up. He took one more look to make sure they'd left no clues of their entry behind, then slipped through the door into the hallway.

They nearly ran into a Major on their way out, just so managing to dodge her by slipping behind a corner, pressed together tightly. The adrenaline resolved in a fit of giggles once she'd passed them, and by the time they reached Sherlock's flat they were both outright laughing.

“That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done,” John sighed, collapsing on the bed. Sherlock watched him do so with a pleased tingle in his stomach.

“And you invaded Afghanistan.” John began to laugh again, shaking his head.

“That wasn't just me,” he pointed out, and Sherlock smiled.

“True.”

They caught their breath in companionable silence. Eventually John heaved himself up, giving Sherlock a long glance.

“Alright,” he said, nodding towards his hand. “Come here. Let me have a look at that.”

Sherlock got up to retrieve the first aid kit under the sink, then dropped onto the mattress. John move until they were facing each other, their knees bumping together. Neither of them commented on it.

“Relax your fingers,” John said as he peeled the improvised bandage away, dropping it into a bowl. “The bleeding stopped, that's good. Does it hurt much?” he asked, and Sherlock shook his head. John looked up, meeting his eyes as he gave him a look.

“A little,” Sherlock amended. John hummed.

“This is going to burn.”

“I know.”

He held Sherlock's palm with one hand while cleaning the wound with the other. The sting wasn't as bad as anticipated, weakened by John's gentle fingers resting on his skin. The new bandage was tight and fitted. John gave his hand a final squeeze when he was finished, then let go.

“There, all set,” he said softly, and Sherlock flexed his fingers tentatively. The pressure of the bandage prevented him from causing too much harm, and it didn't hurt too badly. He'd felt much worse pain.

“Thank you,” he said, and John smiled at him.

“I'd say 'anytime', but I fear that would only encourage you.”

“Well, as long as I have you with me I'll be in good hands if I get injured.”

John held his gaze, nodding slowly. “You will be,” he said, and it sounded like a promise. Sherlock looked away and allowed himself a small smile, his stomach prickling pleasantly. Getting hurt had certainly never been this rewarding before.

John stood up to get rid of the bandage and the first aid kit. Sherlock felt the cool air where his body had been pressed against his just seconds before. He got up as well, fetching the laptop Mycroft had equipped him with. He inserted the flash drive and started the transmission process, glancing at John over the opened lid.

“If you want to make tea, it's in the cupboard,” he said, and John straightened to give him a knowing look.

“You're just trying to get me to make you a cuppa.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Is it working?”

John smiled despite himself. “Yes, it is,” he said, reaching for the cupboard. “You're injured, after all. No overstraining, doctor's orders.”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, looking pleased. “Thankfully I have my own personal doctor who makes sure that I don't have to make the tea myself. It's good that you're here to look after me, I'm a terrible patient.”

“Never would have guessed,” John muttered. He glanced up. Their eyes met, and suddenly they were both giggling again.

“Christ, I don't think I've laughed as much as I have with you in months.”

Sherlock didn't think that he'd ever laughed as much as he did with John at all, but he said, “Me neither.”

John graced him with another beaming smile, and Sherlock only took his eyes from him when his laptop made a sound. He extracted the flash drive, opening the folder with Chapman's files to immerse himself in them.

He barely looked up when John put a cup of tea down in front of him, mumbling a distracted thanks.

“What are you going to do with all that?” John asked, leaning over him to gaze at the laptop. His hand came to rest on Sherlock's shoulder as if for support, but the touch was too gentle for that.

Sherlock blinked at the screen, not daring to look at John for fear of prompting him to take his hand away. He shifted to lean into the touch, then said, “I'll go through his files, look for any hidden clues or codes that might help us. Back-ups of his emails, that sort of thing. This will probably take a while.”

He bit his tongue as soon as the words were out. He hadn't meant to make it sound like he couldn't use John there with him. John was always of use to him.

“Okay. Well, if there's anything I can help with, I'll be right here,” John said, sitting down across from him. Sherlock gave him a relieved smile.

“Make yourself at home.”

John smiled as well. Sherlock returned his gaze to the screen, but part of him remained conscious of John's every movement. He just sat and watched him for a while, sipping at his tea. Then he got up. Sherlock could hear him moving towards his scarcely filled shelf.

“ _Physical Chemistry: A Molecular Approach,_ ” he read out loud, then asked, “Don't you have any books that you read for fun?”

“This _is_ what I read for fun,” Sherlock pointed out. “I don't see the point of popular fiction.”

“No, I suppose you wouldn't,” John mumbled, more to himself. He returned to his seat a minute later, carrying an outdated version of _Compendium of Chemical Terminology_ that Sherlock had acquired years ago, before he'd even started university, and which he kept out of sentiment rather than usefulness. Sherlock watched him leaf through it for a while, then cleared his throat.

“John, if you're bored-”

“I'm not,” John said, looking up in surprise. Sherlock regarded him closely.

“If you have anywhere else to be-”

“I don't.” John shook his head, smiling briefly. “I really don't.” A frown crossed his face. “I mean, unless you'd rather be left alone, then I could-”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately, cutting him off this time. “No, stay. If you like. You can stay as long as you want to.”

The corner of John's lips went up. “Okay.”

Sherlock regarded him for another moment, then focused on the laptop again. He went through file after file, never losing focus once while John occupied himself, a steady presence at the corner of Sherlock's eye.

He soon looked up in search of paper, and found a notepad being shoved into his hands before he could even say anything.

“You're welcome,” John said, then lowered his eyes to his book again. Sherlock blinked at him, then allowed his lips to curl into a smile before he got back to work. The notes soon gained structure and the page filled rapidly.

Sherlock didn't notice the time going by, but when he looked up the sun had long set.

“I think I'm done for the night,” he finally announced, automatically reaching for the steaming cup of tea that had materialised not long ago in front of him. The hot sweetness was a pleasant sensation, leaving him with a warm, content feeling in his stomach.

“Are you done already?” John asked, sounding surprised. Sherlock shook his head.

“I only went through his correspondence archive and the main folders. There's still a good chunk left, but chances are that there's nothing useful in there that I didn't already figure out.”

“So you did find something?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock got up, reaching for his dressing gown as he stepped in front of the wall he'd converted into a board. He pinned the notes he'd taken within the past few hours onto it, then grabbed a marker. John had gotten up as well, standing beside him.

“Those are his most frequent contacts,” Sherlock explained. “I left out family and friends that he hasn't mentioned specifics about the work to.”

John skimmed the list, nodding along as he recognised the names. “Your brother, that's no surprise, Carter, Smith, Yilmaz, Carlton – is that Ted Carlton?” Sherlock nodded. “Grant, Moran – who's that?”

“That,” Sherlock said, “is a very good question.” He reached for two more sheets of paper, pinning them next to each other. He watched John closely, who regarded them with narrowed eyes.

“I have no idea what that's supposed to be,” he finally said. Sherlock dropped his shoulders.

“Me neither. I was hoping they would mean something to you.”

“What _are_ they?” John asked, eyeing the papers again. “Are those stick figures?”

Sherlock nodded. “These are attachments from the mails between Mark Chapman and Sebastian Moran. The emails itself only mention them in passing, between passages about inane things like the weather or some movie's reviews. The only allusion to them was a line about 'the dancing men', which I assume these figures are meant to be.”

“What did it say, exactly?”

“The dancing men are coming along nicely, and I am glad for the opportunity to distribute my work,” Sherlock quoted.

“Sounds ominous,” John remarked. His elbow brushed Sherlock's arm as he shifted his weight. Sherlock didn't move away. “It's some kind of code then, yeah?”

“Precisely.”

“Well, I'm sure your brother has a whole team ready to work on deciphering it.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “but I'm not going to give it to him.”

John turned to him in surprise. “Why not?”

“Because I can't be sure that word of it won't get through to Chapman, or to someone who's working or friends with him. I won't mention his name until I'm certain that he's guilty, which means that I can't give Mycroft any information yet.”

“Right.” John frowned. “Do you think you can crack it, then?”

“Yes.”

He nodded as though he'd expected nothing less. “Great. Thank god you're a genius.” Sherlock met his eyes, and they both chuckled.

Sherlock's smile faded when he let his eyes wander over John's face, the crinkles around his eyes, the bags beneath them. “You're tired,” he observed.

“Yeah.” John shrugged.

“You should sleep,” Sherlock said. “You can stay here, if you want. I'm going to be up for a while yet.”

“That's nice of you, but I should go home,” John declined, and Sherlock nodded politely.

“Of course.”

“You get some sleep as well, yeah? Please?”

He hummed absently and John sighed. “Alright, well. Thanks for the tea.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “Anytime. Thanks for the company.”

John smiled gently. “Thanks for that, too. Good night, then.”

“Good night, John.”

Sherlock watched as John gathered his jacket and opened the door, giving him a lingering smile over his shoulder. “See you,” he said, and then left.

The door clicked shut and Sherlock returned his gaze to the stick figures after a moment of taking in the quietness, contemplating his next steps.

“It's going to take a while, but I know where to start,” he said to the empty room. Silence answered him. Sherlock closed his mouth and got to work.

* * *

Human beings took quite a long time to develop. Approximately 40 weeks in the womb were necessary to produce a functioning person. Before that, no less than 16 million years of evolution had taken place to ensure said functionality. Such a hassle. All that work, Sherlock thought with an internal sigh, and it had been completely wasted on the man sitting before him. If he weren't suspecting him of selling state secrets, he'd wonder if there was anything going on inside his head at all.

“Mr. Holmes, are you listening to me?”

The eyebrows of the man took a strange form as he frowned. Sherlock resisted the urge to groan, putting on his semi-best friendly face instead.

“Where's Captain Watson?” he asked. Maybe it was this, he mused, that made him so irritated with Chapman's demeanour. John's absence was tangible, an unwelcome and unbidden interruption in Sherlock's plans, his daily rhythm. John hadn't even informed him of his absence, no less.

“Like I said, he's occupied today. I'm to be his substitute until he returns.”

“And how long will that be? He's my _contact person,_ frankly, scheduling him for another job is pointless.”

“He wasn't scheduled for another job,” Chapman corrected, looking as annoyed as Sherlock felt. “He's away on personal leave.”

Sherlock sat back. His eyes narrowed as he assessed Chapman, but the man had no reason to lie.

“I see,” he said. “Well, I regret to inform you that there has been no progress so far as to who has taken the documents. I merely wanted to check in with Captain Watson to discuss our strategy, but that can wait until he returns. Good afternoon.”

He stood and walked out of the room before Chapman could start asking questions. He made a detour to his room, checking his phone for any texts or missed calls. None.

 _Until he returns_ , Chapman had said. So he wasn't around the base at all. The sharp sting of disappointment he felt annoyed him.

John didn't need to inform him about his every step. He wasn't obligated to let him know when he left, or why. Sherlock didn't know why he'd expected him to. They were... friendly. Not friends, perhaps. Didn't friends tell each other about their whereabouts? Either way, his disappearance irked Sherlock in ways he didn't want to examine, and so he firmly stuffed his phone back into his pocket and made his way to the lab.

The day dragged on, worse than usual. Sherlock found himself reaching for his phone several times, the thought of texting John about something that had crossed his mind materialising before he could stop it. The fact put him in a grumpy mood, and though he tried not to let it show, he knew that his annoyance seeped through.

“Alright,” Molly said at one point, putting her test glass down. “What's wrong?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing puts you in a strop like that? Then I don't want to know what you're like when something's up.”

He narrowed his eyes, then amended, “Nothing of importance. John is away and I don't know where. That's all. It doesn't matter.”

“He didn't tell you?”

“Nope.”

Molly looked surprised. “Huh, must be important then. Since you two are attached at the hip these days and all.” She chuckled nervously.

“Apparently we're not as attached as you thought,” he replied, ignoring the sting he felt at the words. Molly frowned.

“Sherlock, I'm pretty sure whatever he's doing must be quite urgent, if he left you for it without a word. That's not like him, and anyway, you two are just- well.” Her face flushed and she shook her head. Sherlock furrowed his brow in incomprehension. “I'm sure he'll be back soon, anyway. He's your contact, he can't just leave.”

“And at a crucial point like this, too,” Sherlock muttered. At that, Molly listened up.

“Did you find something?” she asked, her eyes wide, and Sherlock gave a short nod.

“Chapman,” he said under his breath, careful to keep his voice low in case any of their colleagues returned from lunch early. “We- got hold of his personal files. There's nothing directly incriminating for now, but he's corresponded with someone whose name I've never heard before. They were using a code.”

Molly's eyebrows shot up. “Have you cracked it yet?”

“I'm working on it. It may take a while, but it's a good lead. Much more than we've gotten so far.”

“That's amazing,” she said, pressing her hands together. “You can leave a little early, if you want. To work on the code. I'll tell you to go when the others are back.”

Sherlock considered the offer, but the thought of returning to his flat on his own put him off. He glanced at Molly, figured that he didn't particularly mind her company, and shook his head. “No, I'll stay.”

Molly smiled at him. “Alright.” She paused, obviously debating something with herself. Sherlock squinted at her.

“Out with it, Molly.”

She chewed on her lip, then straightened. “I was just thinking, if there's anything I could help you with, you know, you can just say so. I'm happy to help with- whatever. Concerning the job or... otherwise.”

Her words took him by surprise. “Why?”

“Just so.” She shrugged. “It's what friends do, isn't it?”

“Friends,” Sherlock repeated, frowning at the word. “Is that what we are?”

Other people might have taken that for a hint, but Molly cut right through to the genuine curiosity behind the question. “I think so,” she said, giving him a crooked smile. “If you want to be.”

Sherlock hummed. “I don't usually have friends,” he pointed out.

“I don't think there's anything usual about this situation, so we're probably good.” Their eyes met, and Sherlock allowed a smile on his lips.

“Alright then.”

Molly let out a relieved breath, her shoulders relaxing. Then she elbowed him. “So, as your friend, where in London can you recommend me to go?”

“Do you plan on leaving?” Sherlock asked, raising his eyebrows. She shook her head, her ponytail swinging left and right.

“It's just, I've only been a couple of times, as a kid, and I loved it so much. But after school I started this job pretty quickly, and I never got the chance to live there like I'd always imagined. It's just that I think about it a lot, and I've been thinking that I could take a trip there on my next leave.”

A dreamy expression came into her eyes. “It's just so wonderful, isn't it? The city. It's lovely, there's something so charming about it, the brimming air, the bustle of all the people. It's just so special.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, a wistful yearning overcoming him at the words, “it really is.”

Molly gave him an understanding smile. He looked away for a moment, then cleared his throat.

“Right. First of all, stay away from tourist attractions. You'll get to see enough of those in passing. What you'll really want to see are the hidden places, the side streets, all the restaurants people avoid because of their looks...”

* * *

The ping of his phone the next morning took him by surprise. Sherlock had been up most of the night, throwing in an hour of fitful sleep to function at the lab. Looking at his phone he realised that he hadn't expected John to text him, which, in hindsight, was illogical, but nevertheless true.

He ignored the wave of relief washing over him as he read his enquiry on when they could meet up, texting back that he could come by anytime. He shook his head at how much he looked forward to seeing him; like he'd been gone for a month rather than a day.

John didn't text back with an approximate time, so Sherlock spent the day brimming with anticipation as he waited for his arrival. He didn't know whether he was already back, or if he would come straight to see him once he returned. The thought pleased him.

It was long past lunchtime when John arrived. Sherlock, in the middle of a conversation with Molly, immediately focused on him.

“Hi,” John said after pushing open the doors, sheepishly blinking up at him. His hands were in his pockets, making him look years younger, like a teenager returning home late.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, his voice breathless. The sight of John, though not unexpected, took him by surprise. Had he always looked so handsome, even in the unflattering lab light? Had the colour of his hair always been this multifaceted, inviting him to look closer, to thread his fingers through the short strands, the hints of grey? _Absence makes the heart grow fonder,_ his brain helpfully supplied. He resisted rolling his eyes at himself and asked, “Had a good trip?”

One thing he was certain of was that the shadows beneath John's eyes were a new addition. He was familiar with the sight of the bags under his eyes, but this was a new kind of exhaustion, a tiredness that sat deeper than a day-trip warranted.

John looked positively guilty at the question. For all that Sherlock was annoyed by his lack of messages, he didn't want that.

“Er, yeah. Sorry about that. I didn't- something came up. It was kind of short notice.”

“You don't need to explain yourself,” Sherlock said. A look of frustration crossed John's face at that, but then he pulled himself together, settling into a more neutral expression. Sherlock didn't like it. He didn't want John censoring himself around him. He'd never felt the need to censor himself around John, which, by his standards, was a first, and he wanted John to feel the same ease with him.

“It's fine,” he said before deliberately dropping his eyes to his pipette, giving John the chance to change the subject. “It's all fine.”

John cleared his throat. “So, how long do you have to stay here for?”

Sherlock glanced up, pulling his lips into a half-smile. “Dinner?” he asked, and John nodded.

“Starving,” he admitted.

“I'll be done in 45 minutes, tops. If you don't mind takeaway from yesterday you can come to mine, I still have plenty left.” He'd ordered before starting on the code, and then he'd abandoned the food for his work, putting the unopened boxes into his fridge for later.

“Sounds lovely,” John assured him immediately, and Sherlock found it quite endearing that he probably meant it.

“Good. There's something I want to show you once we're alone.” John raised his eyebrows, tilting his head in interest.

“I look forward to it.”

“Me too,” Sherlock said. Then he reached into his pocket. “Here.” He held out his keys. John took them automatically, looking at him in surprise. “You can go ahead if you don't mind, warm up the food. I'll be right there once I'm done.”

“Alright.” John nodded, a rhythmic clattering sounding as he closed his hand around the keys. “See you in a bit, then.”

Sherlock watched him leave, then hurried to finish up his work.

Coming home to John in his flat was much more pleasant than he'd anticipated. For a moment he allowed himself to imagine having the image presented to him on a regular basis. How convenient it would be to have John there, always. How pleasant.

“Did you eat at all while I was away?” John asked, ripping him from his thoughts, and Sherlock just tilted his head.

“I'm hungry now,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Let's eat.”

They didn't talk about the work in the beginning, jumping from topic to topic to comfortable silence as they ate. John asked after his hand and Sherlock dutifully showed him the healing wound, earning himself an approving nod.

They didn't talk about John's trip either. John didn't offer any information and Sherlock, sensing that an enquiry was unwelcome, didn't ask. He tried not to think about it, about the fact that the only thing he could pick up on was that it had left John exhausted and closed off.

“So, what did I miss?” John asked when they'd put their dishes away and cleared the table, both of them stuffed. “Any progress with the decoding?”

“I deciphered part of it last night,” Sherlock reported. “And I'm positive that I'll be done soon.”

“You did?” John looked impressed. “How did you start? I have no idea where I'd even begin with something like that.”

Sherlock got up to fetch a copy of the dancing men and a blank sheet of paper, then returned to the table. John was watching him expectantly.

“As a starting point it's important to know that the most common letter in the English language is E,” Sherlock explained.

“How do you know the messages were in English?”

Sherlock gave him an approving smile. “I didn't, but it was likely. Chapman is a boaster, he'd put it on his CV if he spoke another language. As it is, it only included English and Estonian. Since Sebastian Moran is an English name, I assumed that the language of their correspondence would also be English. As I've already decoded a good chunk, it seems that I was right in doing so.”

He stopped talking when John beamed at him, quirking an eyebrow.

“Brilliant,” John said, and Sherlock smiled. The warmth spreading in his stomach at the praise was equally as pleasant as the look John was giving him.

“I looked for the most used figure and singled it out as E. The problem is that after E, the order of the remaining letters is by no means as distinctive. Roughly speaking, T, A, O, I, N, S, H, R, D, and L is the order, but T, A, O, and I are very nearly abreast of each other.”

He glanced at John to make sure he was following. He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's gaze momentarily caught on his tongue sticking out in concentration.

“Luckily, we had quite a selection of messages. This one-” He circled a line of dancing men- “is a five letter word, with an E coming second and fourth. Might be _sever, lever,_ or _never_. Now, I tried every combination and looked for subsequent lines I could deduce. Nothing came out for _sever_ and _lever_ , but _never_ seemed to lead somewhere.”

He pointed at a longer string of figures. “Nine letters, EN close to the end. Long shot, but I tried out _documents,_ and the key seems to fit.” He scribbled the letters above the dancing men. “It leaves us with _this_.” He drew out the last word, writing down the blanks before pushing the paper towards John.

_T_E_ _ _ _ _ NEVER _NO_ _OU TOO_ T_E DOCUMENTS _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _E _T _ORT_ _OUR _ _ _ _E_

The attachment from the second email, the shortest one, was already deciphered. It simply said _done._

The third message came out as __I_ _OU _E_L _N_ONE_. John was squinting at the last one, which was also the longest.

_NO_O_ _ _ _NO_S _ _E_ _ NO _R_CE S_NTOS DOESNT _NO_ _ _ _T _ USED _ER _CCESS _OR S_E _ONT S_ _ _N_T_ _N__

“Filling in the obvious gaps, we got the symbols for Y and H, probably more. I stopped at this point, though. Had to leave for work.”

John tore his eyes from the paper only to gape at him in amazement. “You seriously did all this in less than two days?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I was bored. I had nothing else to do.” _You were away,_ he didn't add.

“That's absolutely brilliant. Do you even know how brilliant that is?”

Sherlock's lips curved into a smile. “It's not bad, I suppose.”

John chuckled in disbelief, his hand coming to rest on Sherlock's wrist. “It's much better than that, you madman.”

“I'll take that as a compliment,” Sherlock said, keeping his voice steady despite his quickened pulse.

“It is,” John confirmed, completely sincere. “It really is.”

Sherlock smiled again, startling when he realised that they'd been staring at each other for several seconds.

“Tea?” he asked, unwilling to let John leave already, now that he'd just come back. John gave him a brilliant smile, one that left Sherlock looking at him a little longer still before he moved.

“Tea would be lovely, yeah.”

* * *

As glad as Sherlock was that there were finally developments in the investigation, unbidden thoughts started nagging at him as things progressed. As it was, each step closer to the solution of this case meant one step further away from John. And Sherlock found that he was loath to even think about leaving him, about returning to London only to go back to the solitude he'd had there. Of course he wanted to see the case solved, but the wish to remain with John was equally as strong, if not stronger.

This was new. The work had always, always come first. Sherlock had never even entertained the notion of putting someone before it, had scoffed at the mere idea. There never _had_ been anyone to put before it. But John seemed to be the exception to all his rules, and the thought of parting from him made Sherlock's stomach curl in an uncomfortable way.

His lips pressed together as the thoughts came to him during work, unwelcome but not unexpected. He was so lost in his mind that he startled when Molly touched his arm, nodding to his left when he looked up.

Sherlock followed her gaze and laid eyes on Sina, who he'd barely exchanged a word with. She was rather closed off and inaccessible, and, right now, engaged in a heated conversation with Thomas. He glanced at Molly. She nodded as a sign for him to listen, then turned her back in pretence of being busy.

“It's not like anyone cares,” Thomas was saying, much to Sina's dismay.

“ _I_ care,” she hissed, hugging her arms around herself. “It's important. What if anyone finds out?”

“What then?” Thomas gave back, sounding annoyed. “Trust me, I've handed my reports in late several times. It happens. Nobody ever gave me a hard time about it. You'll be _fine._ ” He stressed the last word, but Sina didn't seem to listen.

“You don't know that! And I haven't been here as long as you. I'm exchangeable!”

“Sina, I'm telling you, all you're being is unreasonable! You got caught up in your work, you didn't get it done in time, what's the big deal? It's all the better for it!”

He pushed her along to a shelf as he talked at her, their voices growing quieter. Sherlock lowered his eyes before either of them could catch him looking, sucking his lip in as he turned the conversation over in his mind.

He considered Sina's general demeanour, the body language she'd just displayed. She'd been telling the truth, her fear clearly hadn't been acted. Since he'd found nothing about her at all in Chapman's files, he deemed her innocent. That was good news. He half reached for his pocket, then stopped himself from sending the text so soon after eavesdropping on the conversation.

He didn't have to message John at all, as he entered the lab in quick strides not long after everyone had left for lunch. Sherlock's face lit up with a smile.

“Ah, John!” he said, straightening his back, “I was just going to text you. There's been-”

He stopped short when a blonde woman entered the lab behind him, her eyes on him with an expression of barely concealed curiosity. Sherlock's eyes flickered to John's face, who was giving him a smile, but it was... wrong. Too closed off, a little too tight around the edges.

“Sherlock,” he said, “this is my wife, Mary. Mary, Sherlock Holmes. The one I've been working with recently.”

Mary smiled at him. “So you're the one who's been stealing my husband away!”

Sherlock blinked at her. “Well, I'll have to agree that our working hours can be abysmal,” he said, stepping forward to extend his hand. “It's nice to meet you, Mrs. Watson.”

“Mary,” she said, turning her head to John. “He's posh!” she stated, as though he weren't in the room. John smiled briefly, but didn't comment.

Sherlock moved his gaze from him to Mary, thinking of a way to ask _What is she doing here?_ without coming off as rude.

“Are you also working here, Mary?” he settled on, although he knew that it wasn't the case. The look John gave him told him that he was well aware of that. He resisted the urge to shrug defensively and focused on Mary, who shook her head with a laugh.

“No, no, just picking something up. And I was curious about you, I'll admit.” She looked at him with an unsettlingly intense stare, then crinkled her eyes. “Don't worry, I'll leave you boys to it in a minute. I need to get going soon anyway. Work,” she said, giving him a smile that said _you know how it is._

“You work for the government as well?” Sherlock asked. It only struck him now that in all the time he'd spent with John, neither of them had ever talked about Mary, had ever as much as mentioned her outside of 'the wife', and even those incidents he could count on one hand.

“Yes. Top secret work, very hush hush.” She winked and he nodded, putting on what he hoped was a polite smile.

“As is the norm when working for this institution,” he commented. She laughed.

“That's true.” She started walking as she spoke, moving towards a cabinet. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to remember whether he'd ever read her name in the context of who had access to chemicals. She took two ampullae he couldn't identify before they disappeared into her pocket, then turned to them again.

“Well, I'll be on my way,” she announced, clasping her hands together. Turning to John, she said, “See you soon.” She leaned in for a kiss. Sherlock meant to avert his eyes, but it was over before he got the chance to. “I'll call,” she promised, and John nodded.

“Have a safe trip,” he said, almost as an afterthought, and she nodded. Her gaze fell on Sherlock again and she extended her hand.

“Nice to meet you, Sherlock,” she said, smiling up at him. “You watch out for my husband, yes?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied automatically, catching the way John frowned from the corner of his eyes. By the time Mary turned around his face was blank, and he held the door open as she stepped outside. He didn't look after her when she'd left. The door fell shut with a loud click.

There was a beat of silence during which John stared at the wall behind Sherlock, and Sherlock found himself itching for a cigarette. Or something a little stronger. John pursed his lips.

“Sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Sherlock asked, deliberately shrugging off the unsettling encounter. “I was about to text you,” he then continued, and John turned fully to him. “There's a new development. I'll tell you about it once I'm done here.”

John nodded. “Sure. When and where?”

“Since you're free tonight, how about dinner?” As if they hadn't had dinner with Mary being around, too. As if they hadn't had dinner just last night, the night before she had to leave on a mission.

John gave him a grateful smile for the attempt at nonchalance, a smile that made Sherlock wonder why he was so grateful for it.

“Go out or takeaway?”

* * *

In hindsight Sherlock questioned whether the wine had been the best idea.

Although, he supposed, maybe it hadn't been the wine at all. The alcohol had eased them, yes, lowered their inhibitions, but they were sober when they got to his flat.

John had insisted on walking Sherlock home and Sherlock hadn't protested, as unwilling to let the night end as John. He was always unwilling to part from him, now more so than ever, and he supposed that had to mean something. So maybe this was where this had been heading all along, sooner or later, the inevitable outcome.

“This was nice,” John said when they stopped before Sherlock's door, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I missed this, when I was away.”

“I missed you,” Sherlock replied, and that was definitely the alcohol speaking, because the words were true but he'd never meant to say them out loud.

John's eyes snapped to his, fixing him on the spot with their intense gaze. His tongue darted out as he nodded slowly. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “me too.”

Sherlock's back was almost pressed against the wall. He noticed this because John was standing so close to him, and even if he'd wanted to step back, he couldn't. But he didn't want to. Instead he gazed down at his face, unthinkingly leaning in until they were separated by the thinnest barrier of air. The flush of John's cheeks, his glistening lips, his soft hair; all of it seemed to lure Sherlock in like a siren song, something he could neither fight nor wanted to.

In hindsight Sherlock realised that it never could have gone any other way, in no scenario, however probable or improbable. They'd been like two magnets from the start, attracting each other against all reason or choice, steadily growing closer until they were interwoven, blurred at the edges, and he was unwilling to disentangle them now.

The touch of John's lips to his still took him by surprise, and yet felt like the most natural, _obvious_ thing in the world. He responded to the kiss without meaning to, without having to think about it.

John's breathing was loud in his ears and he allowed himself to let go as well, taking a shuddering breath as their lips moved together, slid against each other warm and comfortably and so, so right. Euphoria ran through his veins faster than even the cocaine ever had. Everything grew quiet. His thoughts, having rushed to him only seconds ago, came to a complete halt. The only thing that continued to register was John's chest heaving inches from his, and his lips pressing against Sherlock's before abruptly drawing back.

It took Sherlock a full second until he could open his eyes, frozen in place. He blinked at John, his lips still parted in silent invitation, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

John's eyes were wide in shock.

“I don't- we're drunk,” he said, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

They were inches apart, their breath mingling, and their eyes, fixed on each other, were entirely sober.

“I'm not,” Sherlock breathed out, and John shut his eyes as an almost pained expression crossed his face. This time Sherlock leaned in, closing the smallest of distances between them with care. And John responded immediately, no signs of doubt in his movements.

His hands came up to Sherlock's chest, then moved to his neck, playing with the tips of his hair. Sherlock exhaled shakily and John opened his mouth against his. Sherlock followed suit, his heart in his throat as their tongues met, licked into each other's mouth, learning the taste. He drew back and pressed his lips against John's again, needing to feel them slide against his, needing to reassure himself that this was real.

It was. It had to be. His imagination wasn't that good, he couldn't have made this feeling up if he'd tried. John made a sound against him that almost sounded like a whimper, and by some unspoken agreement they both slowed down, loath to separate completely.

Sherlock rested his forehead against John's when they parted, his eyes on his face. They both caught their breaths, John's fingers still in Sherlock's hair, his own hands cupping John's face. The silence was only disturbed by their ragged breathing, all too affected by their actions.

“We can't be doing this,” John whispered, and Sherlock nodded.

“I know.”

John exhaled a shaky sigh. Their lips met again, with neither of them knowing who had leaned in first. The kiss was fuelled by a new force, a frantic impulse, the slightest hint of desperation.

When they broke apart it was only because the lack of oxygen was starting to get to them, and John visibly had to force himself to take a step back and bring some space between them.

Sherlock suddenly felt incredibly lost and far away from him, though they were only a short distance apart. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but found himself speechless. None of the things flooding into his head seemed adequate, nothing came even close to expressing how he felt about what had just happened.

John's chest was still heaving, and Sherlock closed his mouth. Maybe silence was the best option right now.

John touched the bridge of his nose, allowing himself another moment to regain his composure. Then he straightened, seeming to brace himself for saying something. But when his eyes met Sherlock's the air left his lungs and he let out a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. His tongue moved over his lips, and Sherlock knew that he could still taste him there like he still tasted John on his own, the thought equally exhilarating and frightening.

“I can't think of a single thing to say,” he finally offered, and Sherlock shook his head.

“No, neither can I.”

John exhaled deeply. “I think I should go now. Maybe we ought to talk about this tomorrow.”

Sherlock didn't want to talk about _this,_ whatever it was, tomorrow, didn't want the beautiful thing that had just happened between them to be tainted by words, and most of all, he didn't want John to go. But he seemed distraught, and that was the last thing Sherlock wanted, so he just said, “Okay.”

John sniffed once, then looked up to meet his eyes. “Good night, Sherlock,” he said, his voice raw, and it took everything Sherlock had to not reach for his hand, his face, to ask him inside, kiss him again.

“Good night, John,” he said quietly, watching him turn and walk away with visible effort, his shoulders braced.

He only went inside when he was out of sight. Sherlock heard the door fall shut behind him. He leaned his back against the hard wall, his hand coming up to trace his lips, to touch the skin John had touched. He stood like that for a long time, the memory leaving him unable to move.

In hindsight, much, much later that night, Sherlock wondered just how much they were going to regret this in the morning.

Ironically, this was one of the few questions he really didn't want an answer to.

* * *

Sherlock felt both better and worse in the morning. Worse because he hadn't slept, determined to commit every detail of the three kisses he'd shared with John to perfect memory, lest he forget anything about them.

Better because it hadn't been one kiss. It had been _three_. John had kissed him, and he'd kissed John, and he'd wanted it as much as him, and no matter what was going to happen now, that was a truth that couldn't be taken from him.

The knowledge made having to appear at work more bearable. He awaited John's arrival with a fluttery sensation in his stomach, though he was dreading the moment at the same time. The inevitable talk.

What he hadn't anticipated, however, was the second option - that they just _wouldn't_ talk about it.

Sherlock nearly dropped the two bottles in his hands when John entered the lab. Normally he showed up when everyone had left for lunch, but he was early today.

“John,” Sherlock said, swallowing as everything rushed back to him at the sight of him, rendering him momentarily speechless.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John replied, sounding tired. He stepped in front of him, as close as the table separating them allowed. “I need to know if there's anything new you haven't told me about yet. I know we're leaving the Moran thing out for now, but I need something to put into the report.”

Sherlock stared at him, taking a moment until he could speak. This wasn't what he had expected him to say.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head. “I'm working on it, but there's not much I can do.”

John pursed his lips and nodded. Sherlock was painfully aware that he wouldn't quite meet his eyes.

“Alright. I'll text you later,” he said, and then he turned around and headed for the door. Sherlock stared after him with his mouth hanging open.

“Wait,” he called, frowning as John turned back around tensely. “Aren't we going to- talk?” Not that he'd looked forward to it, but wasn't that how it was supposed to go? What they were supposed to do?

John set his jaw. “Do you want to?”

Sherlock blinked at him. “No. I don't know. I'm not sure.”

John sighed, crossing his arms in a terse movement. Maybe he was defensive. Sherlock suspected that he just wanted something to hold on to. “I don't really want to, either. I don't know what either of us _could_ say. It was a-”

“ _Don't_ say it was a mistake,” Sherlock cut in, pressing his lips together to keep them from wavering when John's eyes snapped up. “Please, just don't.”

John stared at him unmovingly, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Then he dropped his arms to his sides. “We can't do this,” he said quietly, his voice hoarse. “We can't. There are so many reasons why this can't happen.”

 _This_ , Sherlock thought. This, like it was just some thing, like it wasn't about the two of them, like it wasn't the best thing to have happened to Sherlock in a long time.

“I know,” he said, fighting down the bile rising in him. “You're married.”

John let out a frustrated sound. “It's not just that!” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “There's so much-” He broke off, exhaling deeply. “We just can't. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.”

Sherlock looked at him, saw the defeat in the slump of his shoulders, the weariness in the lines of his face, and he said, “Okay.”

John looked up. Sherlock forced himself to hold his gaze, nodding once. “Alright. Then we're not doing it.”

John swallowed audibly, not taking his eyes from him. “I don't want to ruin this between us,” he said. “You're the best friend I have.”

The confession caught Sherlock off guard. He swallowed hard, hearing his own breath growing ragged. _He_ felt that way about John, of course he did, but never in a dozen years would he have anticipated John to feel the same.

What a strange, fickle thing they had here.

“You're the best friend _I_ have,” Sherlock said, finding his voice again. “And I still consider you that. We'll forget about it. We won't mention it again. Nothing has to change.”

John looked like he wanted to protest, but then thought better of it and nodded. Sherlock wondered if he could read on his face what his mind was brimming with, that he would never forget that he'd kissed John Watson and John Watson had kissed him back, that he couldn't, even if he wanted.

“Okay,” John said with a sigh, his lips twisting in a tight smile. “I'll text you then.” He turned around and walked away, his hands clenching at his side. Sherlock stayed behind, gripping the edge of the table so hard that it ached.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- "slowly, gently" is from a quote by Steven Moffat on how to write queer representation - Kudos to you if you noticed! The line I used it for is probably the most meta thing I've ever written. Made me chuckle.  
> \- I borrowed the coding from "The Dancing Men" by ACD himself


	4. Chapter 4

If Sherlock had thought he'd felt torture before, he'd been wrong. Growing up alone the way he had had been nothing. Succumbing to drugs until a hospital had been all that had kept him alive had been nothing. Dealing with the aftermath had been nothing, nothing compared to having to endure being this close to John, and yet unable to touch.

It was the temptation that made it worst.

He'd been able to hold himself back before, when he hadn't known that John was facing the same itch that was tabooed to scratch and yet impossible to forget, the urge to get closer, to feel around each other until they blurred at the edges and melted together. It had been easier when he could merely acknowledge the feeling inside him without having to name it.

They carried on as usual, on the surface. But beneath that a new layer had been added, turning innocent touches into sharp sparks and small silences into deep seas of meaningfulness.

John was at his flat again, like he usually was these days, sat on a chair behind the kitchen table. Both of them avoided the narrow bed like the plague, didn't as much as look at it, never mind sit on it.

John's hands were curled around a cup of tea, like they'd been several times before, and Sherlock barely listened to what he said, barely felt the heat of his own cup beneath his fingers, absorbed in the sight of John's lips, the memory of what they felt like moving against his own.

He felt his face heating when John's eyes came to rest on his, his thoughts unmistakable. He dropped his gaze to the table, swallowing before looking back up. John was biting his lip, maybe holding back his words, maybe his own memories.

For a moment they just looked at each other.

“Another?” John asked, and Sherlock swallowed down the rest of his tea, then held out his cup.

“Please.”

He tried to compose himself as the noises of John using the kettle sounded behind him. Then John's hand appeared in his vision, setting down the steaming cup with care. He didn't move away, lingering in his personal space for longer than was strictly excusable.

Sherlock stared at the cup, then twisted around until his knee bumped against John's. He blinked at John's stomach, the pattern of his jumper, before looking up at his face.

John was staring down at him, his hair slightly ruffled from where he must have pushed into it, an unreadable expression on his face.

Sherlock let out a deep breath, parting his lips slightly. “What are you-”

John leaned down and kissed him.

Sherlock abandoned all thoughts as his mind narrowed down to the feeling of John's mouth on his, licking over the seam of his lips as he nudged them. He allowed him access, opening his mouth in response to his teasing. His hand settled on his chest, fisting into his jumper as he held on.

John exhaled audibly as he deepened the kiss. His hand came up to hold Sherlock's cheek, barely touching, a gentle contrast to the heat of the kiss.

They stopped moving after a while and Sherlock, having only just caught his breath, nudged closer to chase his lips again, eyes still closed. It was a soft press of lips this time, tightening something inside him, paining him with its gentleness. Eventually John drew back, staying mere inches from Sherlock's mouth as he caught his breath.

Sherlock blinked up at him breathlessly. He reached out to touch John's face, smoothing over his cheeks, and John let him. Then he sat back down, taking his still steaming cup into his hands.

They didn't talk about it.

* * *

Dealing with addiction in his waking hours was one thing, Sherlock thought, but having to face it in his dreams was just tedious.

Sherlock hardly ever dreamed, and he didn't know what had brought this one on. What he did know was that he woke up sweating in complete darkness, his breath unnaturally loud in the silence of the night. A glance at his phone revealed that he'd only slept for a few hours. Still, going back was not an option. Scraps from his dream still clung to him like his shirt to his chest. As lucid as his own memories, the images were too intrusive. Too tempting.

Sherlock pushed his duvet back and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, the coldness of the floor grounding him a little.

He thought about cocaine a lot, unbiddenly, but he hadn't remembered it so vividly in months. His head was spinning with adrenaline and want, so desperate and unfiltered and raw that he was left breathless.

He pushed himself up and padded to the sink, filling a glass with water that he gulped down. His chest heaved when he put it on the counter with just a little more force than necessary. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring blankly ahead for a moment.

His shirt was growing more and more uncomfortable by the minute. He dragged it over his head, wiping his skin before slipping into a fresh one. Then he reached for his phone again, his fingers already hovering over John's name when he remembered himself.

What was he doing? It was the middle of the night, he couldn't bother him because he'd had a _nightmare._

He gritted his teeth, pushing the phone away. Then he turned on the lights, pulling out the sheets of paper with the code to distract himself.

He didn't go back to sleep and, when the sun came up, got ready for work long before he had to.

Molly looked at him in surprise when she entered the lab to find him already there, dark shadows under his eyes and even more agitated than usual. Thankfully she realised that the best course of action was to leave him alone, and so he worked in silence for the most part, averting his face as often as he could in order not to have to conceal his exhaustion.

The sound of John's steps excited and annoyed him at the same time. Annoyed because he knew that it was him without even having to look up, because something as simple as him entering the lab already lifted the dark mood hanging around him, if only a little.

John was quiet for a moment, clearly waiting for him to turn around. Then, when he didn't react, he asked, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to look at him and John sucked in a sharp breath, looking back with unconcealed worry. “Christ, are you alright? You look like hell.”

“Rough night,” Sherlock snapped, returning his gaze to the liquid in his hands, giving himself a moment to take a deep breath.

“What happened? Are you sick?”

“No,” he said shortly, ignoring the first part of the question. He was sure that John could figure it out, it wasn't like he didn't know about his _issue_. He saw the realisation setting in, noting with a grim sort of satisfaction that he looked slightly guilty before a worried look took over.

“That bad?”

Sherlock said nothing and John drew his eyebrows together. “You could have texted me. You could have called, I wouldn't have minded. I would have been glad to help.”

When Sherlock still didn't reply he took a step forward, standing so close that he was forced to look at him.

“I don't want you to feel like you can't do that,” he insisted, a sharp crease carved into his forehead. Sherlock would have liked to smooth it with his thumb. Possibly with his lips.

“I wasn't sure if it would have been welcome,” he said instead, and then added, defensively, “I wouldn't have known what to say anyway.”

“We could have just not talked. We're good at silence, you and I.”

That was a true statement if he'd ever heard one.

“And of course it would have been welcome. I told you, you're my best friend. I thought I'd made that clear.”

Clear wasn't a word Sherlock would have used to describe their current relationship, but he only bowed his head in silent understanding.

“I'm fine,” he then said, and John still looked doubtful, but nodded.

“Okay then. Well. Next time, you don't have- just call. Or text. You're not the only one who has trouble sleeping, anyway.”

Sherlock nodded as well. “Noted.”

John stayed around for a short while before excusing himself, leaving Sherlock in a worse mood than before.

He felt a headache coming on that didn't go away that day, nor the next, nor the one after. Knowing that it was an empty threat of his body, trying to bully him into yielding, he threw himself into work, staying busy with anything that distracted him from the constant craving at the back of his mind.

He came in earlier and stayed longer at the lab than he had before, which, as it was, prompted John to do the same. Not attracting attention suddenly didn't seem to be of importance anymore. After the second day of Sherlock declining dinner he returned with a bag of takeaway, earning himself a death glare from four separate colleagues, but since it got Sherlock to eat, he didn't seem to care.

He didn't leave once they were done eating either, and the next day he showed up even earlier. If Sherlock chose to stay at the lab at inhumane hours, then John did too, and Sherlock loved it and hated it at the same time. He thought that he desperately needed space from John, and that he didn't want to go a single day without seeing him.

Realising that he was at an impasse with this whole ordeal he tried to stir his thoughts to more productive topics, like the mission he was supposed to be working on. Like the people he should be investigating, which, admittedly, had come to a halt since the discovery of Chapman's files.

People like Marina, Ted, or Emma. Or Frank.

Especially Frank.

Because Frank was the only one Sherlock had found out next to nothing about so far, and he didn't know where to start, either. Frank usually kept to himself, focused on his research. He hardly ever interacted with anyone but Sophia and Pablo, and even they seemed to have a cursory relationship. And, Sherlock realised as he turned around to find his eyes on him just two days later, he'd most definitely just stared at Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock caught his gaze, watched the flush rising in his cheeks, and he made up his mind instantly. He gave Frank a playful smile, batting his lashes twice before averting his eyes. Then he glanced up again, curving his lips into another smile when he saw that he was still looking at him.

_Jackpot._

John next to him was oblivious to the entire exchange, but he wouldn't be for much longer, if Sherlock got a say in it. The thought gave him childish satisfaction. If he could hit two birds with one stone, why shouldn't he?

“Just a moment,” he told John once he'd cleaned everything up. He undid the top button of his shirt, then turned around. Frank looked up when he approached him, blinking at him with wide eyes.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, adding a shy tone to his voice. Frank's lips curved into an uncertain smile.

“Hi, Sherlock,” he replied, putting his stack of papers down. “You okay?”

“Lovely,” Sherlock assured him, touching the back of his neck with his hand, steering his attention to his exposed throat in the process. “You?”

“Me too,” Frank said, swallowing. “Can I... help you with anything?”

“I think you can, actually,” Sherlock said, chuckling once. He bit his lip. “I've been having a bit of trouble with my computer access lately. I don't really know anything about technology and I'm kind of embarrassed to ask the others.” He gave him a shy smile. “But you don't seem like you'd laugh at me.”

“I wouldn't,” Frank said instantly, obviously flattered by his words. “I'm not sure I can help you all that much, though. Technology isn't my strong suit, either.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hummed. He leaned onto the table with his elbows, gazing at him through his lashes. He knew that John could see his face from this angle, and at the risk of overdoing his part he glanced down at Frank's lips, then made it look like he had to force his eyes back up.

Frank's face took on a subtle shade of red.

“Sometimes my password just gets... rejected. I don't know why.”

“That's never happened to me,” Frank said, frowning slightly.

“Hm,” Sherlock made again. “How strange. I just can't get access some days. You've never heard of that happening before?”

He made himself look disappointed, and Frank drew his brows together. “No, I'm afraid not.”

“You don't happen to know any way around our login page, do you? Some other way to access the database?” He pulled his lips into a hopeful half-smile. “It's just such a hassle, I've already wasted so much time on it.”

Frank seemed to think for a moment, then shook his head. “I don't think there's a way around it. You can't access it another way, can you? There's just the usual login.”

His words only confirmed what his body language had already told Sherlock. He wasn't lying, he desperately wanted to impress Sherlock, and he really had no idea what he was talking about.

“Oh. Well, never mind then. I'll just ask Captain Watson to look into it for me.”

Sherlock had to control himself in order not to grin at his own words. Asking John to take care of technology for him was a joke in itself, but Frank would hardly appreciate it.

Frank smiled. “Yes, you do that.”

Sherlock smiled back, then looked down. “Research going well?”

“Very well.” Frank nodded excitedly.

“That's great. Well, thank you so much for your time, Frank,” Sherlock said, straightening with what he knew was a dazzling smile. “I really appreciate it.”

“Anytime!” he replied immediately, fiddling with his hands before saying, “If there's anything else you need, or, you know, if you want to chat...”

“I'll be sure to take you up on that offer,” Sherlock assured him, then winked and turned around.

He returned to his own table, reaching for his coat.

“Come on, John,” he said quietly, not looking at him as he strode down the hallway.

They were both silent on their way to his flat. Sherlock could feel John brimming with unsaid words next to him. The corner of his mouth twitched in satisfaction. Unlocking his door, he said, “Well, that was highly-”

He never got to finish the sentence. John pushed him up against the door as soon as it fell shut, stepping so close that his knee pushed between Sherlock's legs.

“I can't bloody believe you,” he growled, and then his mouth was on Sherlock's. Sherlock melted into the kiss instantly, grabbing him by the shoulders to pull him closer.

He'd missed this, the softness of his lips on his own, the insistent press, underlaid with the gentleness that was John at the core, that let Sherlock know that he was safe with him, that he would never hurt him with these touches.

He groaned when John's tongue licked into his mouth, pressing closer, their clacking teeth a minor inconvenience. John drew back only to press wet, open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, and Sherlock tilted his head willingly, sliding his fingers into John's hair as he closed his eyes. He blindly searched for John's mouth again, getting impatient, sucking his lips between his own.

The delicious moan John let out at that was downright obscene and he abandoned all finesse and just pressed closer, licking over his lips, wallowing in the feeling of it, the taste of him. He felt his body responding to their frantic movements and the close proximity and he didn't even think about it, he bucked his hips forward to brush John's equally swollen crotch, and John hissed, darting back like he'd been burned.

Unhinged, Sherlock opened his eyes. They stared at each other for a moment with their chests heaving. Sherlock could feel the heat of John's breath on his face as he panted for air, could still taste his desire on his lips. His crotch twitched painfully.

“Oh, fuck,” John muttered, taking a shuddering breath. “Fuck. Fuck! We need to cool down.”

“I don't want to cool down,” Sherlock growled, reaching out to bring John's half-hard cock closer to his.

John stumbled back. “Stop!”

Sherlock's hand dropped, hanging uselessly at his side.

“What are you doing?” John asked, his voice thick.

“What does it look like?”

“No, I mean, what's up with you? What was today all about?”

Sherlock blinked at him, shaking his head once in incomprehension. He felt dizzy from their actions, the sudden loss of contact, and yet his mind was painfully clear. “Are you serious? Are you actually asking me that question right now?”

John was looking at him steadily. He must have sensed that this was a breaking point, that this wasn't something they could get around by not talking about it, because he said, “I am asking you that question, yes.”

“Fine.” Sherlock's brow furrowed as he took a step back, bringing as much distance between them as he could with his back to the door. “I can't go on like this, John. It's not possible. You might say I'm overreacting, and you're probably correct, but there's nothing I can do to stop this, to choke down this _thing_ I'm feeling. Believe me, I've tried.”

John looked stricken, but Sherlock continued ruthlessly.

“And you haven't exactly been making it easier on me, you know. This isn't playing fair. Your behaviour towards me is far from what I'd call _clear_. You kiss me, and you tell me we can’t, and then you kiss me again and you just don’t talk to me, John, and I have no idea what you actually want or what I’m supposed to make of this!”

He’d raised his voice without meaning to, and the following silence rang between them. John took a moment before he spoke, and when he did, his quiet reply was a stark contrast to Sherlock's words, clearing his head with its sobriety.

“You’re right,” John said. “And I’m sorry. I really am. You don’t deserve this.”

“I don’t want what I deserve. I just want you talk to me, to tell me what you want.”

John was silent for a moment. “What do _you_ want?”

“You know that already.”

“Indulge me. Say it.”

Sherlock took a moment to contemplate his answer. If this was the one time he would get to voice his desires, he would do it right.

“I want you. I want to kiss you and for you to kiss me, whenever we feel like it. I want to be near you constantly. I want to keep pushing the solution to this case back just so I can stay here with you. I want you to _want_ me, and I want you to be honest with me about what you want. But most of all I just want you to goddamn _talk_ to me, so I know I'm not alone in this.”

The words felt inadequate, barely scratching the surface of what he couldn't even explain to himself, but John swallowed and nodded.

“Okay. Alright, I- Thank you. For being honest.”

Sherlock watched him in silence. John inhaled deeply, then looked him straight in the eye. A soldier to the core. Never running from a challenge. “I'll try to do the same, but I'm not- you know I find it difficult. That sort of thing. So please, give me time.”

Sherlock nodded hesitantly, feeling his heart jumping in his chest.

“Care to join me for a walk?”

It wasn't how Sherlock had expected him to start, but he thought that a walk was probably a good way to clear his head, so he agreed. They left the base in silence, not speaking until the front gate was long behind them.

“I didn't want to be the one to cheat on his wife,” John began, his hands clenched at his sides. His eyes were on the way ahead as they walked. “I didn't. But it's just- it's complicated. It's so complicated with Mary and me. And I never... I never even contemplated meeting someone like you. Someone who swept me off my feet like that. Because when I'm with you, Sherlock, there's so much, I feel so much, so many wonderful and terrifying things, and I've never... had that, before. Not with anyone. Not with Mary.”

There were a hundred things Sherlock wanted to say, wanted to ask about, but what came out was, “Do you love her?”

John was silent for so long that Sherlock didn't think he'd get an answer anymore.

“Not enough,” he said eventually, quietly, and Sherlock turned to look at him. “For her being my wife. I don't think I was ever really in love with her at all, but I did love her in a way, in the beginning. It's more difficult now. I don't know, I honestly don't- It changed, what I felt for her. But even before, it's always been entirely inadequate. I see that now. I wish- Christ, it's just so goddamn complicated." He let out a frustrated breath. "God, look at me. I can't explain it to you. I'm sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head to indicate that it was fine. “Those things you said you felt with me-”

He fell silent, the enormity of the words overwhelming him momentarily.

“Yes?” John prompted when he didn't continue, and Sherlock shook himself.

“Those things, you said- you've not felt them before?”

“No,” John confirmed, shaking his head. The resigned tone of his voice was mollified by the softness in his features. He wasn't fighting it anymore. Sherlock counted that as a success.

John glanced at him from the side. “Have you?”

“Of course not.” Which was precisely the point. Sherlock was, always had been, like that – detached from people, a stranger to romantic entanglement, alone. But that had been before John, and John had broken down every wall he hadn't even realised he'd built, with ease. Considering that he might have done the same for John was incomprehensible.

He swallowed, pushing those thoughts back. There was more to it than just John's marriage, the guilt about his infidelity. More that needed to be addressed, if they wanted to get anywhere with this.

“You said before that it wasn't just about you being married.”

John stared straight ahead. “It's not,” he agreed quietly. His lips pursed as he thought, then turned to Sherlock with his head tilted. “Sometimes it's impossible to do something because of where you are in your life right now, you know? Because of what's going on around you.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, not taking his eyes from his face. “I know.”

“And sometimes you can't help where you are in your life. Sometimes you mess up, and then you have to deal with the consequences, and there's nothing you can do about it.”

Sherlock kept silent. He'd been a slave to the drugs long enough to understand. He still felt trapped under the influence of the cocaine some days, months after his last shot, so he was no stranger to being haunted by one's past. Though he had a feeling that the ghosts John was talking about were of a different nature.

John gathered his next words, coming to a halt before looking up, straight into his eyes. Sherlock stopped walking as well.

“You have to believe me when I say that if there's anything I could do to change this situation, I would,” John pleaded. “If there was a way for me to leave my past behind, to be with you the way I want to be with you, I would do it in a heartbeat. You need to understand that.”

Sherlock swallowed around the thickness in his throat. “I do.”

John nodded slightly, taking a deep breath. “I can't, though.”

They were silent for a moment, just looking at each other.

“But I also can't stay away from you,” John added quietly, his jaw set. “I can't, and I don't want to. And I can't give you half of what you deserve. This is all I have to give. But if you want it, it's yours.”

“And what about what you deserve?”

John looked stricken for a moment, then gave him a sad smile. He turned his gaze away, the smile still lingering at the edges of his mouth as he started walking again.

Sherlock averted his eyes, looking ahead. After a while he realised that he wouldn't get anything more out of him on the matter, and so he sighed. It seemed that they'd reached an impasse again, but this was easier to live with. They were both rubbish at dealing with such matters, but now they'd actually talked, and though neither of them had uttered a concrete word about the future, it was clear that staying away from each other was as impossible as going back to what they'd been before.

His words wouldn't leave Sherlock's head, though, and so he broke the silence a moment later.

“John.”

John let out a deep breath, then raised his gaze to meet Sherlock's. “Sherlock.”

“There's something you're not telling me.” It wasn't a question because they both knew it to be true.

John let out a short laugh. It didn't quite sound humorous. “What, you can't deduce it?”

He wasn't denying it. Though the fact that he was keeping something from Sherlock was unsettling – as unsettling as Sherlock not knowing what it was - he appreciated the honesty.

“I told you that it's not a magic trick. I only know what I can see.” They looked at each other for a moment. Sherlock fought down the urge to press the issue, steadily holding his gaze as he forced himself to respect John's decision not to tell him, despite the sharp sting he felt at the fact.

When John realised that the question wasn't coming, he gave him a grateful smile. _Thank you._ Sherlock watched him for another moment, then averted his eyes.

“What I _can_ see, though, is that you haven't had anything to eat since this morning and that you're basically starving by now. Care to join me for lunch?”

He hadn't initially planned on having lunch today, but the smile John gave him was worth it.

“Thank you,” he said, out loud this time, and Sherlock knew that it wasn't about lunch. It was about letting it go, about hearing him out.

Sherlock just nodded. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Of course, agreeing not to talk about it did nothing to stop Sherlock from thinking about it. When his mind wasn't on the mission or the way John's body felt pressed up against his – which, admittedly, wasn't a memory he ought to revisit in public – he contemplated John's words, the meaning behind them he just couldn't grasp.

Of course he hadn't been so naive to believe that John did not have a past, in the broad sense of the word. Neither did he believe him to be a saint. But his choice of words, along with his caginess concerning the topic, indicated something much more delicate than one would believe from looking at him. No matter how long he thought about it, though, he couldn't come up with a plausible explanation.

In the end, it was Molly who provided some insight. Sherlock had thought the topic over at work as well, pondering on it whenever John wasn't there. Since he'd left on a _private trip_ again the night before (this time not without letting Sherlock know, at least), there were plenty of opportunities.

Molly had surprised him with her quiet perceptiveness a few times by now, so he supposed that he should have seen it coming.

“Are you going to tell me about it before your head implodes?” she asked on the second day John was away.

Looking up, Sherlock realised that she'd tactfully waited until the others had left for lunch. His eyes moved to her face, and her lips quirked into a half-smile. “I'm your friend, remember? You can talk to me if you want to.”

“What makes you think there's something to talk about?”

Molly's look effectively silenced him. For someone so small she could be quite insistent, Sherlock granted her that.

“Sherlock. There's something going on between you and John- oh, don't look so shocked! I may not be you, but I'm not blind.”

Sherlock dropped the act, quirking an eyebrow. “That obvious?”

Molly snorted, and his lips twitched despite himself. “You two are like, like planets or something, just- orbiting each other. Always have been, I mean, but recently it's just- when he's here, you're a different person. You don't act out that friendly role you play here, you just smile and laugh because you want to.”

She shrugged. “And it's not just that. You keep exchanging those looks that make you feel like you're intruding when you see them. You look the closest thing to happy that I've seen on you when he's there, but you also-”

She worried her lip, furrowing her brow.

“Also what?” Sherlock prompted, and she sighed.

“It's just, you also look sad. When you think he can't see you. When he's not looking. Which is why I'm asking what's wrong. I don't mean to pry, but I don't want you worrying that head of yours if it's something I might be able to- help with, or, you know. Just take off your shoulders.”

Sherlock eyed her for a moment, unsure of what to tell her, and she pressed her lips together. Her hand twitched as if she was about to reach out, but then decided against it.

“I'm not judging you,” she said more quietly, blinking up at him. “Either of you. It's not my place to do that, because I don't know the whole story, and it's between the two of you anyway. I don't know what happened, but I can see how happy you are with each other. No matter what else is going on, that's something beautiful.”

“Well,” Sherlock said. “It's true that there's been some- development. I suppose you could say that both of us found ourselves caught up in a rather more emotional alliance than expected. However, I assumed that because of John's marriage and my generally unpleasant personality the sentiment was one-sided. As it turned out I was quite wrong on that account, as he didn't only call me his best friend, but also displayed definite signs of attraction that, at one point, I felt that I could no longer ignore-”

He caught Molly's sceptical look from the side, and shortly finished on, “We kissed.”

“You did?” Molly spluttered, clasping her hands together in front of her chest.

“Repeatedly.”

Molly squealed – Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he'd ever heard someone actually producing a sound like that before – and gripped his arm. “When did that happen?” she asked.

“Only a week ago.”

The thought made him pause. Had it really just been a week? So much had changed in that time that he felt like it had been ages ago. Like he'd been a different man back then.

Maybe he had been, in some ways.

“Does that mean he's not with Mary anymore? Are you- together now?

“Not exactly.” Sherlock sighed, then, for the lack of a better explanation, borrowed John's words. “It's complicated.”

“Oh.” Molly's face fell. “So his marriage isn't over?”

“I don't know. I'm not sure.”

He didn't need to look at her to see her frown. “Haven't you talked about it?”

“We have. He only said that there are several reasons why us being together isn't a good idea, his marriage only being one of them. And no, he did not elaborate.” He paused. “That didn't stop him from snogging me against my door, though, so I'm not sure his reasons are entirely valid.”

He didn't quite know why he confided in Molly now, but the words came easily. He knew that she wouldn't tattle, so there was no harm in telling her, and he found that it was strangely relieving to have someone else know, too.

“Maybe it's not that his reasons aren't valid, but that he feels too strongly about you to let them stop him,” Molly remarked, and Sherlock halted.

“Oh.” He hadn't considered that option, hadn't quite dared to, but her words rang true. A warm shiver ran down his spine. “That's... possible.”

Molly chewed on her lip, lowering her eyes to the table. “Do you know what those reasons could be?” she asked. “Besides the simple fact that he's married, I mean.”

There was nothing simple about the fact that John was married - unhappily married - to someone else, but Sherlock knew how she'd meant it, and so he considered.

“It must be something about his past, but I don't know what it is. There's nothing in his records, if it was known that he's done something illegal he wouldn't be here.”

Molly made a low humming sound, her fingers twitching in her own hand. Sherlock could tell that she was pondering something, so he kept silent, returning his attention to the paperwork in front of him while she thought.

“Have you considered-”

He looked up when Molly faltered, her forehead in creases.

“Considered what?” he asked when she didn't continue.

“Well, you know. What if it's not just the fact that he's married, but that his marriage is- hm. Not quite healthy?”

Sherlock furrowed his brow, shaking his head slightly. “How do you mean?”

She sighed, taking a deep breath. “Well, abusive relationships aren't always a man beating up a woman, right? Abuse can happen both ways, and it's nuanced. Maybe it's- something like that. Maybe he's ashamed.”

Her words hit him like a slap.

Abuse.

He'd never noticed any signs of physical abuse on John, but that didn't mean that they weren't there, or that the lack of physical abuse indicated a lack of emotional one.

He wanted to shake himself for not having thought of the possibility sooner. How careless of him. _Stupid._

“If he was,” Sherlock said slowly, his eyes narrowed as he contemplated the notion, “in a situation like that. What could I do to help?”

“I don't think there's anything you could do,” Molly said quietly, looking at him from beneath her furrowed brow. “Abusive relationships aren't something other people can fix. They're complicated. The only thing you can really do is being there for him, I suppose.”

Wasn't that what John had said? _It's complicated. It's so complicated with Mary and me. It's so damn complicated. I can't explain it to you._

“Do you think that's what it is?”

“I don't know. Do you?”

Sherlock crunched his nose. “Maybe. Possibly. I find it... hard to imagine him in such a position, but I suppose it's an option.” He paused. “It would be one possible explanation of the given facts.”

“And it might be something completely different yet,” Molly added. “But abuse can happen to anyone. And it's really hard to get away from, no matter what form it takes.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock repeated, feeling sick to his stomach at the prospect.

They dropped the topic after that, but he never once stopped thinking about it.

It was true that there was something deeply, fundamentally wrong in John and Mary's relationship. Even Sherlock as an outsider could see that, had seen it before he'd become involved. He didn't know enough to identify the problem, and John didn't seem inclined to tell him more about it. Rather the opposite. So, really, there wasn't much Sherlock could do. Or anything at all.

The realisation left him feeling immensely frustrated with both himself and the situation, and he flopped onto his bed with a deep groan that night, pressing his palms against his closed eyelids in an attempt to block out the world.

Despite his inability to work this out, what Molly had said was true. Even if John was in a situation like that, there was nothing Sherlock could do to change it, even less so if John never talked to him about it. He would just continue to be there if John wanted him then, to offer to listen, and watch out for any signs he might have missed before. And maybe that would be enough. Maybe that would be just fine.

Because Molly was right, they did make each other happy. Why _shouldn't_ he make the most of it? Why shouldn't that be something good?


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock pulled the door open as soon as the knock sounded. John's hand was still in the air, his face a perfect display of surprise. His lips quirked into a smile when his eyes met Sherlock's.

“Welcome back,” Sherlock said, reaching out to unceremoniously pull him inside. John stumbled into the flat, turning around with his eyebrows raised.

“Hello to you too,” he replied. “Everything alright?”

“Better than that,” Sherlock remarked, taking an appraising look at him before swiftly leaning down for a kiss. It was chaste and soft, a mere brush of lips against lips, but John smiled when he drew back.

“What is it that put you in such a good mood, then?”

“You're back, for one. I suppose that's quite enough reason to be in a better mood than usual.” He paused for dramatic effect, the corner of his lips quirking into a smile. “But I _did_ crack the code as well.”

John's eyes went wide. “You did? When?”

“Last night. It was obvious, really. I could have gotten to it much sooner.”

“Of course you could have,” John muttered, then gave him an expectant look. “Well? What does it say?”

Sherlock turned to the wall, feeling John following behind him.

“ _They will never know you took the documents,_ ” he read, “ _I will make it worth your while._ ” He pointed at the next one. _“Did you tell anyone,_ and finally, _Nobody knows. I left no trace. Santos doesn't know what I used her access for. She won't say anything._ ”

John's mouth had fallen open as he listened. He turned to look at Sherlock. “Santos? Marina Santos? With the sick father?”

“That's the one.” Sherlock nodded. “It sounds to me like he paid her to keep quiet about the security breach, though we can't know for sure.”

“Wow.” John was silent for a beat. “What do we do now? Is this enough to show your brother?”

“Not quite. We know now that Chapman took the documents, but we can't prove that he hasn't sold them already.”

“Couldn't they find that out once they take Chapman into custody?”

“We can't know that for sure. If this Moran person gets wind of the affair once Chapman's arrested, if Chapman hears about it just a few minutes too early, they could lose every piece of evidence on his computer.”

“Right. So we need more proof. Which we don't have.”

Sherlock glanced at John. “Yet.”

“Meaning you have a plan.”

“I do, but there's a problem.” John nodded as a sign for him to continue, and Sherlock folded his hands beneath his chin. “I need to get access to Chapman's office again.”

John licked his lips. “Okay. We've done that before.”

“A month has passed. The code of the alarm system changed.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock turned around abruptly, fixing John with a stare. “How do you feel about pulling a little stunt?”

John straightened, cocking his head. “What do you have in mind?”

* * *

John's knock was perfectly timed. Sherlock looked up from his chair opposite Chapman's desk when the sound came, watching him glance at the door with a sigh.

“Come in,” he called out. “Captain Watson,” he said in greeting when John opened the door, an eyebrow quirked in mild surprise. “What can I do for you?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Chapman,” John repeated the words they'd rehearsed last night, putting on a serious face. “But there's a minor situation at the lab. I was send to get you, your presence is needed.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows when Chapman's eyes darted to him. “Do go on,” he said with a wave, smiling politely. “I'll wait for you here.”

“It won't take long,” John added, holding the door open wider. “But it's urgent.”

Chapman sighed again, pushing his chair back. “I'll just be a minute,” he said in Sherlock's general direction, already halfway across the room. Turning to John, he asked, “What happened?”

“A spillage of two chemicals,” John explained as he stepped away from the door with a nod to Sherlock, a polite gesture to an outsider, a clear signal to him.

Chapman followed him outside and the door fell shut with a click. Sherlock counted to fifty, then got out of his chair when he was sure that he wouldn't come back. He inserted the flash drive in his laptop, repeating the procedure from the last time he'd been in this office.

He listened for his phone the entire time, waiting for John's text of warning that Chapman was on his way. By the time it arrived he was already back in his seat, the flash drive safely stored away. The laptop looked as if it had never been touched.

“Is everything under control?” he asked, tingeing his voice with moderate concern.

“Everything is fine.” Chapman reached for a tissue, slumping in his chair as he dabbed his forehead. “Two chemicals got mixed during a spillage, one of them mistakenly unlabeled. We figured it out, though. Nobody was harmed by the fumes.”

Sherlock nodded solemnly. “How lucky,” he said.

Lucky for them that Molly had agreed to help with the stunt immediately, planting two bottles of carefully selected chemicals to drop at just the right moment. Chapman, of course, was none the wiser. Sherlock smiled to himself, feeling the weight of the flash drive in his pocket.

He excused himself as soon as possible without raising suspicions, making a bee-line for his flat. John was already there, waiting for him with a terse expression.

“Alright?”

“I got it. Inside,” Sherlock mumbled, taking out his keys.

“That was almost too easy,” John said when he'd closed the door behind them.

“He's almost too much of an idiot,” Sherlock retorted, switching on his laptop before even taking off his jacket.

“This is going to take a while, right? Do you want me to order anything?” John asked while the contents loaded, and Sherlock nodded absently.

“Chinese, if you must.” He could still eat later. It would probably make John happy.

It did, as it turned out. And a happy John meant soft smiles, relaxed shoulders, and a peck to his temple as he set the food down in front of him.

“Eat something,” he ordered, and Sherlock shovelled two forks of fried rice into his mouth without even thinking about it.

It did take a while to sort through the data they'd acquired, but John didn't leave and Sherlock didn't expect him to. This was their rhythm, and for now, it worked. For now, neither of them thought of Mary, entirely absorbed in their bubble of chasing mysteries and takeaway food and copious amounts of tea.

“Aha,” Sherlock said when he stumbled upon an email to one S. Moran. It had been sent from an external account this time, but featured the same dancing men symbols.

John's eyes snapped up to his, and he got up in a swift move to circle the table, leaning over Sherlock's shoulder. The sudden proximity momentarily took his breath away, and Sherlock was glad for the second he got to compose himself as John asked, “Another mail?”

Sherlock nodded, moving the cursor across the screen. “Another code, too.”

He quickly opened the file with the deciphered symbols, then put it side by side with the new message.

“Can you get me a-” he started, but John already reached over his other shoulder for a sheet of paper and a pen, brushing his neck in the process. The way his hair rose at the brief contact was a completely natural, physical reaction. The way his insides shuddered with sudden desire, however, was not.

John's breathing was loud and clear in his ear. Was it just him or did it seem slightly harder than usual?

“Thank you,” he mumbled, knowing that the hoarseness of his voice didn't go unnoticed. John only nodded in acknowledgment.

Sherlock cleared his throat, forcing his attention back on the screen. Still, part of his mind stayed on John as he scribbled down the letters one by one. On the way he didn't draw back even the slightest bit as he worked. The way his aftershave filled Sherlock's nose exquisitely, agonisingly.

He swallowed, tilting his head slightly to get a look at John from the corner of his eye when he was done.

“ _Time to hand them over. Monday night, between seven and eight. POB 57 1,_ ” John read out loud. “When was this sent?”

“Three days ago.”

“Which means we haven't missed it.” Sherlock's eyes dropped to John's mouth as his tongue darted out, moving over his lower lip, leaving a glistening trail.

“No,” he agreed. “There's still time.”

John's eyes fell on his. They just looked at each other for a long, loaded moment that ended up being cut short when John straightened abruptly.

Sherlock blinked at the space where he'd been just a moment ago, disappointed and relieved at the same time. Relieved because he was quite sure that they would have been kissing within half a minute, probably not stopping there.

Disappointed, for the very same reason.

“If it's a post office box, they must be talking about the post office that's half an hour from the base.”

“You've been there?” Sherlock asked in an attempt to pull himself together.

“Lots of times.” John paused, then turned to look at him fully. “I could shadow him, when he goes there. See who shows up.”

“And risk Chapman realising that he's being followed? No.”

John crossed his arms. “So you'd rather risk the documents getting out? I don't think so.”

“John. If either Chapman or Moran realise that someone knows about their trade, this entire mission fails.”

“What's your plan, then?”

“I go.”

John narrowed his eyes. “Are you serious, Sherlock? No.”

“I'm perfectly serious.”

John shook his head in incomprehension. “How is that any better than me going?”

“I know how to follow people without being seen.”

“So do I. I've had military training, you know. And my presence is a lot less suspicious than yours. You've never been at the post office, and you're usually still at work at that time. I've been there many times and nobody will bat an eyelid if I happen to show up.”

They stared at each other in silence, both narrowing their eyes. Sherlock got up with a huff when John didn't back down, pacing the narrow room.

Of course John was right, of course he was. He didn't quite understand why he was so vehemently against his plan, he just knew that he didn't like it one bit. But he couldn't put emotion over rationality. It wasn't like he was sending John into _battle_ , for god's sake. Which was somewhere he'd been, anyway, and he'd managed just fine.

“I don't like this,” he said, fixing John with a stare. He took a step towards him, closing the distance between them gradually. “You need to be very, very careful. Nobody can know that you're there because of Chapman. You're not a particularly good liar. If you give yourself away in any way, the mission's off.”

“I know that,” John said, his chin stubbornly raised as he returned the look. “And of course I'll be careful. As I'd want you to be, if you were the one going.”

Sherlock stared down to him, his mouth suddenly dry. John stared back, his lips slightly parted, and Sherlock thought that that was an invitation if he ever saw one. He didn't even think of stopping himself as his hands came up on their own account, cradling John's face tenderly before he leaned in to bring their lips together.

John responded to the touch immediately, making a small sighing sound against his mouth, like he'd been waiting for Sherlock to make a move. He grabbed his waist and pulled him closer, parting his mouth to grant him access, bringing their bodies together. The kiss grew more frantic as Sherlock attempted to caress his lips and catalogue his taste at the same time, soothing and fuelling the sparks of desire in him simultaneously. He stepped impossibly closer, their chests pressing together as they kissed, their breathing growing more ragged by the second.

It wasn't enough.

And maybe it would never be enough, would never feel entirely sufficient, but Sherlock would be damned if he didn't try.

He dropped his hands to John's chest, roaming over the jumper before his fingers went lower, settling on his hips. He tentatively slipped beneath the thick fabric, where hot and soft skin awaited him.

John let out a shuddering breath, canting his hips in response. He gripped Sherlock's shirt, then dragged his hands over his chest up to his neck in a way entirely too sensual. His touch felt electrifying and Sherlock couldn't help his nails digging into John's sides, causing him to hiss into his mouth, a sound that quickly turned into a groan.

Sherlock had long realised his body responding to their activities, and yet feeling John's responding arousal caught him off guard. He faltered in his movements, just breathing against his mouth for a moment.

“You want this,” he panted, experimentally bucking his hips. John's eyes fell shut as he pressed closer. “You really want this.”

His hands moved over John's back, treading carefully, keeping it light. The shivering sigh John gave in response was like music to his ears.

“Please tell me you want this,” he asked, his voice down to a whisper. “Say it. I need to hear you say it.”

John inhaled sharply, his Adam's apple bobbing as he looked up at Sherlock, holding his gaze in silence. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse but steady.

“I want this so much that it hurts me, Sherlock. I want you _so_ much. I yearn to touch you, to have you touching me, you don't even know.”

“I do know,” Sherlock replied, leaning in to capture his lips in another kiss before he could say anything else, because whatever it was, Sherlock wasn't sure he could take it.

This kiss was different. In no way less passionate, desperate, but something had shifted, something that had them clutching at each other like it was for dear life, like they could never get close enough. This kiss tasted of bitter anguish and sharp desire and something much, much bigger, something Sherlock had no capacity to describe, not with John's body pressing up to him like this, his hands touching his skin, his lips on his in a way that left him wordless.

This kiss seemed to change everything.

When they broke apart with a gasp John immediately moved to press a kiss to the corner of his lips before going on to his cheek, then his jaw. Sherlock held onto him tightly, knowing that he was past the point of letting go.

“Are you sure?” John asked in a breathless whisper, his words ghosting over Sherlock's neck as he spoke.

“Are you?”

John's breath was hot on his skin, blocking out everything else as Sherlock's mind narrowed down to the sensation.

“We shouldn't,” John mumbled, barely raising his lips from where he was leaving small, wet touches. “You know we shouldn't.”

“I know,” Sherlock gave back, wrapping his arms around him in a tighter grip. John moved back up to his lips, kissing him so deeply that Sherlock, after all the kisses they'd shared by now, feared for the stability of his knees.

“John,” he breathed out against his lips, unwilling to part from him even long enough to say his name, and John stilled for the fraction of a moment, bringing their foreheads together. His chest heaved as his hand travelled up Sherlock's back, fisting into the fabric of his shirt.

“I can't give you up, Sherlock,” he said, blinking his eyes open to look at him. “No matter how hard I try, I can't stay away from you.”

Sherlock only nodded. “Then don't,” he said, “I don't want you to. I _want you_.”

He knew John noticed the change in his words by the way his brows drew together, almost like he was in pain, before he cupped Sherlock's face and kissed him again. His hands moved to the top button of his shirt, and Sherlock sighed into the kiss. He left the undoing to John, knowing that his fumbling would only hinder him.

John moved from button to button while Sherlock held onto him, his fingers pressing so hard into his skin that he was surely leaving marks. He couldn't bring himself to care, couldn't stop. A primeval part of him _wanted_ to leave his traces, wanted to mark John to show his claim, show that he was his, if only for now, for this one precious moment.

John reached the bottom of his shirt, nibbling on his lips before moving his hands over his chest, slowly dragging the fabric over his shoulders. He let the shirt fall to the floor, his hands touching Sherlock's bare skin. Then he stepped back, dropping his eyes.

Sherlock shivered under the intensity of his gaze, swallowed as his fingers moved over his pronounced ribs, curling around his waist. He moved his own hands, catching the rim of his jumper between his fingers. John dropped his arms, ridding himself of the clothing swiftly. Sherlock tugged on the undershirt and it soon followed, joining their abandoned clothes on the floor.

When John looked back at him, Sherlock's eyes were fixed on the puckered scar on his shoulder. He'd imagined it, of course, but seeing it was something else.

The wound hadn't healed evenly, the flesh too damaged to grow back together as cleanly as before. Paradoxically, the bulging, red skin was what drew Sherlock in, the uneven rims, the thick scar tissue. This bit of his body that would never properly heal was so intimately, undeniably _John_. It was a part of him and no one else. Thousands of people could get shot, and none of them would have a scar quite like this.

John granted him a moment to look before he moved. His eyes were on Sherlock's face, but his arms sneaked around his waist again. “Not very pretty,” he said, and Sherlock's eyes shot up.

“Don't be ridiculous,” he murmured, but his voice lacked scolding. “It's fascinating.”

“Well.” John chuckled. “That's one way to put it.”

Sherlock, sensing his slight discomfort, stepped closer to him, deciding to leave the study of his scar for later. He leaned in, brushing his lips against John in a reassuring way, telling him that it was fine with everything but words.

John's hands moved up and down his sides, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Sherlock shivered, parting from John with a soft sound, drawing back only far enough for John to look at him.

“Come to bed with me,” he murmured, the words a low rumble, a warm ghost of breath between them, and John only kissed him in response. Sherlock thought that his lips would be raw in the morning, thought that he could drown in the feeling of it, and gladly so, if only John didn't stop kissing him.

John nudged Sherlock's shoulders and he followed immediately, letting himself be walked backwards until his legs hit the bed. He reached down, unbuttoning John's trousers in a slow, careful movement.

John's hands came down as well, pushing the fabric away to allow him to dispose of it. Then his fingers moved to Sherlock's hips, teasing at the rim of trousers before deftly unbuckling his belt. His fingers hovered over his button, playing with the zipper. Sherlock shimmied out of the clothes once he'd opened both, pulling his socks off as he stepped out of them.

“Are you gonna leave yours on?” he asked with the quirk of an eyebrow, looking up at him, and John chuckled, his eyes crinkling.

“Impatient, are we?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said when he straightened, grabbing John's face in both of his hands to crash their lips together. John pressed up against him and they toppled over, landing on the bed without much grace, but firmly entangled.

Sherlock wriggled up the mattress, pulling John on top of himself, relishing the feeling of so much of his bare skin on him. They were both naked save for their pants and Sherlock found himself hypnotised by the sensation, his skin burning at every point they touched.

John's hand came up, stroking his cheekbone as he gazed at his face. Sherlock shut his eyes at the tender touch, feeling John lowering his head to his rather than seeing it. He instinctively lifted his own, meeting him for a deep kiss.

“This okay?” John asked lowly when they broke apart to catch their breath.

“It's perfect,” Sherlock assured him, and John's features softened at the truth behind his words. He brushed an errant curl from his forehead, pressing his lips there once before drawing back.

“You're so beautiful,” he said, his voice full of awe, and he lowered his head to Sherlock's neck, leaving a trail of soft kisses on his skin. “Have I ever told you?” he asked, his words interrupted by his lips ghosting over his shoulder, his chest. “How bloody gorgeous you are.”

“John,” Sherlock got out, his eyes fluttering shut as John moved down his stomach, licking over his bellybutton, then going lower. The touch of his lips was gentle, barely there, but it felt like someone had set Sherlock's skin on fire.

He swallowed, trying to breathe around the tingling sensation in his cells, the hot weight on his chest, and failing.

This was something he hadn't expected, something he didn't know how to deal with. Because like this, with his hands on John's body, his weight on top of him and their limbs entangled, with the ghost of John's lips all over his bare skin, Sherlock felt _loved._

And it was absolutely terrifying.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his breath coming in short, hard blows. He clutched John's skin, digging his fingers into the comforting warmth.

John seemed to notice the change in his body. He placed a soft kiss on the inside of his quivering thigh, then came back up. His eyes met Sherlock's as he blinked them open again, and they shared a long look that seemed to burn right through him.

“Alright?” John whispered, his thumb brushing his cheek.

Sherlock nodded mutely, unable to express what he was feeling, to even put a name on his irrational reaction. He pulled him down, needing the weight of John's chest pressing against his like air, and John, thankfully, seemed to understand what he couldn't say.

“Don't worry. I'm going to take care of you,” he promised. He took Sherlock's hand, pressing his lips onto his palm, over the now healed wound. Then he moved on to kissing both of Sherlock's cheeks, the corner of his lips, his nose, and finally his forehead. Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh as he sealed their lips together in a kiss that left him completely defenceless.

All too soon John drew back, nudging his cheek with the tip of his nose.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want this,” Sherlock said, pushing up against him. “I want you.”

John let out a quiet breath, the warmth dizzying on Sherlock's face.

“Do you have anything here? Condoms?”

Sherlock shook his head, gripping John's body without thought. There wasn't a chance that he would let him leave. There was no way in hell he could separate from him now, give up the feeling of his body, his skin on Sherlock's, his scent filling his nose, his lips hovering so close to his.

“Alright. That's okay. Nothing fancy, then.”

“I don't need anything fancy,” Sherlock said, “I need _you_. Kiss me.”

Then he forestalled him by lifting his head off the pillow, pressing his already sensitive lips to John's, following the invitation into his mouth when they parted willingly. He clutched at John's back, lifting one leg to wrap it around John's middle.

The movement effectively brought them closer together. Their erections brushed through the thin fabric of their pants and they both groaned, swallowing the sounds the other made hungrily. Sherlock bucked his hips and John stilled for the fraction of a second, then canted his pelvis to rub his cock over Sherlock's.

Sherlock hissed, his hands moving down John's back to his hips. His fingertips brushed the rim of his pants, then slipped beneath it. He dragged his fingers over the foreign skin until they met his erection. He was barely touching, barely holding on, but John let out an obscene moan, closing his eyes. Fascinated, Sherlock made quick work of disposing John of his pants, breathlessly watching his reaction as he wrapped his hand around him.

“God, yes,” John groaned, gripping Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock gave an experimental stroke, feeling the hot skin, the thickness, the uneven veins. He loved the weight of him in his hand, loved how he seemed to fit perfectly. He repeated the stroke, halting momentarily when John reached between them to clutch his hips.

“Off,” he growled, his gaze heated, and Sherlock nodded fervently. He lifted his hips, letting John pull off the fabric. The first touch of John's hand to his cock left him gasping, and he thrust into the touch instinctively.

“I've got you,” John mumbled, stroking one thumb over his hipbone where he was holding him steady while the other brushed his glans.

“Oh, god,” Sherlock gasped, then moaned. John was repeating the motion, apparently unbothered by the fact that Sherlock had loosened his grip on his erection. He gave him a smug smile.

“You like that?” he asked, sounding just a little breathless.

“ _John,”_ Sherlock groaned, wrapping his arms around his shoulders to pull him closer. John slumped down with a sound that quickly turned into a groan when their cocks slid against each other.

Sherlock moaned when John rutted against him before catching himself, taking a deep breath as he tried to regain control. Sherlock could feel the expansion of his chest against his own. He brought up his hand to spit into his palm before reaching between them, grasping both of their cocks. John followed his example, joining from the other side, and together they found a rhythm, bumpy at first, then smoother and gradually faster.

Their ragged breathing was the loudest sound in the room, interrupted by soft moans every now and then, tiny sighs into each other's mouths, the smacking of lips meeting and parting again. Sherlock lost himself in the sensation. The pleasure in his stomach grew steadily, and yet it took him completely by surprise when it tipped him over the edge.

He cried out John's name as he came, too caught up in the bright, sharp release to care. John held him as his orgasm claimed him, the pleasure that flooded him arching his back off the bed, leaving him breathless.

It was overwhelming. He closed his eyes, distantly aware that he was letting out a string of deep moans. John seemed to melt against him at the sounds. His hand continued to stroke Sherlock's cock as he spurted between them, bringing the last ounce of pleasure out of him.

He lost track of everything that wasn't John or the ecstasy filling him, which amounted to the same thing. When he came back to himself he felt boneless, his body still warm and inundated with aftershocks of pleasure.

“That,” John said, his voice wavering, “was the goddamn hottest thing I've ever seen.”

His breath was coming in ragged blows. Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow to catch his lips in a sloppy kiss, wrapping his arms around him as he sighed into his mouth. Then he bucked his hips, brushing his softening cock against John's leaking erection.

“Now let me take care of you,” he breathed against his lips, and John squeezed his eyes shut, giving a nod.

Sherlock pushed himself up on one elbow, reaching between them to wrap a hand around John. He moaned when his fingers closed around him again, at once falling into a steady rhythm. The tip of John's cock was wet and Sherlock dipped his thumb into the liquid, spreading it on the shaft to ease the slide.

“Yeah, like that,” John panted, his lips parted slightly, and Sherlock decided that if he could still talk like that, he wasn't doing it right. He adjusted his grip, then started to move faster, harder, adding a twirl at the end. John took a sharp breath, his hand moving over Sherlock's chest, digging into his shoulder.

“I won't- I'm- fuck, Sherlock,” he got out, and then his body went rigid and he spurted between them, the drops of his release landing on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock didn't take his eyes off him for a single moment, desperate to catch every twitch of his muscles, commit the expression as he came to perfect memory.

“Beautiful,” he breathed out, utterly enchanted by the sight, and John took a deep breath before rolling off him, collapsing on his side. Sherlock rolled over as well, arranging himself until they rested closely to each other, their legs entangled and their faces inches apart.

Sherlock looked at him, and he looked and looked and looked, trying to convince his endorphin-flooded brain that what he saw was real. And John looked back, steadily meeting his eyes, sometimes dropping them to his cheeks or his swollen lips, but raising them back up every time.

Sherlock knew that it couldn't stay like this forever, but he refused to accept it already. But the seconds ticked away, and as he grew more aware of his surroundings again, he also became aware of the the coldness beginning to creep in, spreading in his heavy limbs.

Because Sherlock had enough experiences with drugs to know how this would go. Addiction never changed, and he would be a fool to believe that this wasn't what this was about, at the core.

He'd found something else that provided him with the fix he so desperately craved, only in an entirely different way. Something else that he'd fallen for, without realising just how deeply, that constantly left him wanting more, in the form of this singular, endlessly fascinating human being he was now lying next to.

Something else that would, eventually, ruin him.

He took slow, deliberate breaths and awaited the words he knew must be coming.

They never did.

Their rhythmic breathing was the only sound in the room for the longest time. When John eventually spoke, he only mumbled, “We should clean you up before that dries completely.”

Sherlock, taken by surprise for a second, shook his head.

“I'm not getting up,” he declared. John chuckled. Sherlock wanted to protest when he supported himself on one elbow, but then realised that he was only reaching over him to grab a piece of clothing from the ground. He groaned with the effort and Sherlock moved his hand, steadying him until he'd caught something.

“Hope you don't mind,” John said when he crumpled up Sherlock's boxers before wiping the traces of their release from his belly.

His stomach twitched at the touch, gentle as it was, and the corner of John's lips responded in kind.

“Alright,” he mumbled, dropping the pants carelessly before pulling the duvet from the foot of the bed over them.

Sherlock hummed, blinking at John's face. His fingers came up to trace the lines of his jaw, then his nose, his cheek. He leaned in, putting his lips on John's, just grazing them before pulling back.

“I didn't know it would be like this,” he said, searching his eyes.

John smiled brilliantly, and only a little sadly.

“Are you comfortable?” he murmured, his fingertips dancing over Sherlock's arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps.

“I'm always comfortable with you,” Sherlock replied honestly. John gave him a look he couldn't quite interpret, something akin to disbelief, to wonder, and it didn't make sense, because it should be _him_ looking at John like that.

“Oh, Sherlock,“ John breathed out. His hand moved over Sherlock's bare skin endlessly. It seemed that now he'd started, he couldn't stop. “What am I going to do without you?”

His words were tinged with sadness, and they felt like a cold shower. Sherlock took a deep breath as he braced himself against the force of the statement.

He knew that this was where they were headed, that the end of their shared time was drawing close. He'd avoided thinking about it, but now, like this, holding the warm body of the only one he wanted in his arms, he couldn't hold it back any longer.

How ironically unfair of the universe, to let him taste this happiness only to taunt him with its loss.

“Easy,” Sherlock gave back. He shut his eyes, because looking at John as he said those words was impossible. “You're going to forget about me.”

Because this was it, wasn't it? This was all he was ever going to get. There was no point in pretending that he could have something as good and beautiful as this in his life, and keep it. He would leave for London soon enough, or John would go back to Mary, and there was no scenario in which this was something that lasted. It shouldn't hurt him. It was irrational.

He opened his eyes again when John didn't agree, but let out a chuckle instead.

“No,” he murmured, seeking Sherlock's gaze. “How could I? How could anyone ever forget you?”

Sherlock's throat tightened. He swallowed, moving as John shifted to press his lips to his.

The kiss tasted different. He opened his mouth, letting him in, feeling himself sink into it until everything that wasn't the soft heat of John's mouth, the slick slide of his lips, the breathy sighs they shared, faded.

They stayed close when they parted, their breath mingling, neither of them daring to open their eyes just yet.

“How does anyone live like this?”

John huffed out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh, but it came close. They settled back on the pillow, gazing at each other through heavy lids. “We just do, don't we?”

Sherlock's lashes fluttered as his fingertips moved over the curve of his cheekbones, tracing the lines of his face.

“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse, “we do.”

They stayed in bed for a long time, wrapped up in each other like that, and eventually tiredness took hold of Sherlock. He allowed himself to doze off, fading in and out, conscious of John's presence all throughout.

He opened his eyes when John's hands moved over his side, applying gentle pressure, enough to lift him from the layers of sleep.

“Hey,” he said when Sherlock's eyes focused on his, his voice low.

Sherlock gave a deep hum, moving to touch his arm. “What time is it?” he mumbled. His mouth was dry from sleep, his voice croaking.

“Nearly half past two.” John brushed a strand of hair out of Sherlock's forehead, threading his fingers through his unruly curls. “I should leave,” he said quietly.

Sherlock pushed himself up on one elbow. “Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose.”

“I just wanted to let you know, so you wouldn't wake up and think-” John gesticulated something with his hands, giving him an apologetic look.

“No, I understand.” He gave a half-smile. “I'm glad you woke me.”

John leaned in and brushed their lips together. He broke the kiss all too soon, before it could grow too heated, and carefully climbed over Sherlock to get up.

Sherlock pulled the duvet over himself and watched unashamedly as John got dressed, picking his clothes up from the ground in the half-dark. The kitchen light was still on, and the realisation brought back their earlier conversation.

“We still need to talk,” Sherlock said, “about Chapman. There's only two days left.”

“I know.” John pulled his jumper over his head. “But I really can't stay. You can text me, though. Or we'll talk about it tomorrow. We'll work it out.”

“Alright,” Sherlock said. He lifted his head to rest it on his arm, taking comfort in his own body heat where John's was now missing.

John shrugged into his jacket, then turned around to look at him. Sherlock moved to sit up, but John shook his head.

“Don't get up,” he said, stepping in front of the bed. Sherlock blinked up at him. Taking his face in his hands, John bent down, capturing Sherlock's lips in a tender, bittersweet kiss. It was goodbye for now, and thank you, and so many things that neither of them could voice.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said when they parted, resisting the urge to chase the softness of his lips as he drew back.

John gave him a wistful smile. “I don't regret it,” he said after a moment, his brows drawing together. “Any of it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Me neither.”

John nodded softly. “Good night, Sherlock."

“Good night,” Sherlock replied when his back was turned, closing his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch him leave.

He still heard the door fall shut with a click, all the louder in the silence of the flat.

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The bed, designed for one person, was now too large without John's body squeezed into the empty space. The sheets were cold and vacant.

Sherlock turned his head to look at the time.

Two thirty-nine.

Two forty-four.

Two fifty-one.

Sleep was an illusion, escaping him like a shadow that couldn't be captured.

Two fifty-six.

Three twenty-one.

Sherlock got up to have some water, the sheets clinging to him like a second skin. Not the skin he craved.

Three forty-seven.

Sherlock reached for his violin.

* * *

The lab seemed brighter when Sherlock arrived, though he suspected that he'd just gotten accustomed to the dim half-light of his flat as he'd paced the narrow room endlessly.

Molly was there when he arrived, and he couldn't help the twitch of his lips as he remembered their talk about him and John. The thought of letting her in on the most recent developments was pleasant - he thought that he might do it, just for the hell of it.

“Morning,” he said, earning himself a curious glance.

“Morning,” she replied carefully, tilting her head. He huffed. Really, he wasn't _that_ obvious.

Deciding to wait it out he prepared his work for the morning, deliberately keeping his eyes down like he usually did. He didn't need to steal glances at her to know that she was watching him.

“Are you going to tell me what put you in such a good mood, or do I have to guess?”

Sherlock gave up the pretence of work and looked up, raising his eyebrows innocently. “Whatever do you mean?”

She snorted, covering her mouth with her hand. “God, that really doesn't suit you. Come on.”

“Fine.” Sherlock sniffed. Maybe he was that obvious, after all. “Guess away, if you must.”

Her lips curved into a genuine smile. “Well, let's see,” she said, easily joining in on his playful act. “Does it start with a J and end with an N?”

Sherlock smiled. “Positive.”

“Hmm.” She lowered her voice to a staged whisper. “Did he kiss you again?”

Sherlock hummed. “ _Positive,_ ” he repeated, raising his eyebrows before looking down his body suggestively. When he raised his gaze again Molly's eyes had grown wide.

“Really?” she asked, reaching out to grip his arm. “You're kidding! When?”

Sherlock smirked. “Last night.”

“Oh my god!” she squeaked, flailing her hand. “How was it?" She bit her lip. "Was it good?”

“No kissing and telling, isn't that the rule?”

“Oh, come on, you!” She slapped his arm, the eagerness in her features almost drawing a chuckle out of him. “You can't waltz in here with that post-coital glow all over you and then tell me nothing.”

Sherlock leaned in, mumbling into her ear, “It was really very good, if you must know. Very good indeed. Quite... something.”

Molly drew back to grin at him. “You know, Sherlock,” she said, “I'm really quite happy for you.”

Sherlock allowed the giddiness that had been welling up in him to fill him up, and his lips curled into a wide smile. Molly elbowed him gently before returning to her work with an accompanying expression.

Left to his own thoughts, Sherlock's mind inevitably wandered to the memories he'd turned over and over in his mind all night. He didn't dare dwell too much on them, lest his body started to respond, but the simple knowledge that he _had_ them left him dizzy.

Though, of course, there was nothing simple about it. The fact that he'd shared this with John was nothing short of extraordinary.

He knew that John would come soon, and he waited impatiently for his arrival as the morning progressed. He wasn't quite sure what to expect after the night they'd shared - they'd be in public, after all - but it didn't matter. He just wanted to see him.

His face lit up when, at last, the door swung open to reveal John, only to freeze when Mary came up behind him.

“Hi,” she called out cheerfully, unaware of his reaction, striding past John with a smile.

Sherlock pulled himself together, not looking at John as he put on a fake smile. “Hello, Mary. Back, I see?”

“Yeah, got some business to attend to here,” she said, winking at him like he was supposed to know exactly what she was talking about.

Sherlock made a non-committal sound. “Of course.”

She swiftly moved past him, taking something from a cabinet and, again, putting it into her bag before Sherlock got a chance to see what it was. The entire thing was over in half a minute.

“Right, that's everything,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You coming, John?”

Sherlock let his eyes move to John for the first time since she'd talked. John's eyes weren't on Mary as he replied, they were on him.

“Yeah, coming.”

She went for the door, calling a quick goodbye over her shoulder, and then John turned around to follow.

Sherlock blinked at his back, a faint sense of déjà-vu coming over him.

“Wait,” he said, reaching for his arm without thought. John went still beneath his touch, and Sherlock dropped his hand as if he'd been burned. He cleared his throat. “What about the operation? We don't have a plan yet.”

“I know.” John turned around fully, his back to Mary. He lowered his voice. “I'm sorry, I can't- text me, okay? Can we work it out like that?”

 _It._ Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then, sensing the urgency in John's stance, nodded slowly.

“Good.” The relief was audible. “Listen, I really- I should go. We'll talk later, yeah?”

He looked at him as if he wanted to say something else before thinking better of it. Then he shook himself and left.

Sherlock looked after him, all the words unsaid bitter on his tongue. He turned to Molly, catching her eyes. Her brow was furrowed, and she shook her head once in question.

Sherlock hunched his shoulders, his eyebrows drawing together.

No matter how he'd expected their first meeting after the night before to go, this hadn't been it.

* * *

Sherlock's thumb hovered over the keys as he reread his text. He had, quite frankly, not the faintest idea how to start the conversation, and so he did what he knew how to do, which was getting straight to the point. He hit send.

_[To: John]  
I assume you still insist on being the one who goes to the post office._

He hadn't expected an immediate reply, but his phone pinged barely a minute later.

_[From: John]  
Hey_

_Are you alright?_

Sherlock frowned at the screen. Clearly he'd missed the memo explaining that speaking in person was a no go, but discussing private matter via texting was alright. How did anybody keep up with all these social conventions?

 _[To: John]_  
_Why wouldn't I be?_

 _[From: John]_  
_I don't know. Because of earlier. Because I left last night. Because you changed your mind, maybe_

 _[To: John]_  
_Don't be ridiculous. You can't control where your wife goes, you had to leave, and I didn't change my mind. Of course I didn't._

 _[From: John]_  
_Okay_

_That's good. I didn't, either, for the record_

_I'm really sorry about earlier. I didn't want it to be this way, seeing you again for the first time after last night_

_[To: John]_  
_It's not your fault, John._

_[From: John]  
I wish I could be with you right now_

_[To: John]  
So do I._

_That won't get you out of talking about the operation, though._

He could almost hear John's soft chuckle, could imagine the warm huff of his breath all too clearly. The cool air of his reality stung in comparison.

_[From: John]  
Right. I do insist on going, yes, because it's the most logical solution. You know it's true._

_[To: John]_  
_I concede it. My point still stands, though. If anything at all goes wrong, the whole mission fails._

 _[From: John]_  
_I got that._

 _[To: John]_  
_You need to be careful. You have to be so discreet that you could fool yourself. You don't know who this Moran person is, they could be anyone. They could be watching you without you even realising. If they realise why you're there, it's over._

 _[From: John]_  
_I know, Sherlock. I can handle it._

 _[To: John]_  
_I'll stay close to Chapman's office tomorrow. I'll text you as soon as he leaves. You need to be ready to follow him. Don't walk too closely, let him have a slight lead. Hold your phone to your ear like you're talking to someone if you have to. Put it on silent, in case anyone actually calls._

_I expect he'll see you at the post office, it's essential that you stick to your act and look surprised to run into him there, then leave him to it. Memorise every detail without giving away that you're paying attention. Especially everything about Moran, should you recognise him. His looks, stance, clothes, anything._

_[From: John]_  
_Alright. Sounds like a good plan. It'll be fine, I'm sure_

 _[To: John]_  
_It has to be. Call me if something comes up. Anything._

 _[From: John]_  
_Will do. I'll call when I'm done so we can meet up, yeah?_

_[To: John]  
Yes._

_[From: John]_  
_We could have dinner, maybe? If you're up for it. Would be nice, seeing more of you in private again_

_[To: John]  
I suppose._

He regretted the text as soon as he'd sent it. The pause between his message and John's reply was pregnant with meaning, a meaning he couldn't quite grasp himself. John's next text was short and yet entirely clear.

 _[From: John]_  
_Sherlock_

_[To: John]  
Yes._

There was a slight pause again, during which Sherlock almost felt John's hesitation. Then his phone pinged two times in succession.

_[From: John]  
I'm getting the feeling that something's wrong between us, Sherlock. I just want to say, it's okay if it is. I understand. But I'd much rather you tell me_

_Please. Talk to me._

Sherlock released his breath through his lips. He tapped the keyboard, then stopped. He didn't know what to say or how to express himself. He wanted to talk to John, but how could he tell him anything if he didn't understand what he was feeling himself?

He sucked in his lip, then decided that honesty was probably the best course of action. They _had_ agreed on talking openly, even if it was hard. Even if John still hadn't come forward about the secret he was keeping from Sherlock, the one surrounding his marriage. The one Sherlock still hadn't figured out, to his immense frustration. At least physical abuse seemed less and less likely, with no marks anywhere on John's body - and Sherlock had seen all of it by now.

The memory was what made him pull himself together. At the core, the situation was still what it always had been: he wanted John, and John wanted him. That was all there was; that was all that mattered. He'd known what he was getting into from the minute it had started. John had told him, repeatedly. And if he didn't know why he was upset despite this, then he would start by telling him just that.

_[To: John]  
I don't know what's wrong. It's not like I didn't know that it was going to be like this._

The reply came quickly. Sherlock imagined John's relief at his honesty, his tongue sticking out as he swiftly typed an answering text.

_[From: John]  
That doesn't mean that you're not allowed to be upset about the way things are, Sherlock_

_Trust me, I am. I can't stop thinking about you.  
_

_[To: John]  
The feeling is mutual._

_[From: John]_  
_I want to be with you so badly. Not just right now. Properly. Constantly. Outside of all this, of everything that's going on_

 _[To: John]_  
_There are many reasons why we can't do that. You said so yourself._

_[From: John]  
I also said that no matter how hard I try I can't stay away from you, didn't I? I should, for your sake, but I can't. And for entirely selfish reasons I don't want to try anymore._

_Maybe we should talk about this in person, but I need you to know that this is how I see you, what you are to me. You're not a bad habit I can't quit. You're the best thing that happened to me in a long, long time. I don't want to quit you._

_[To: John]  
Alright, we can talk tomorrow. In person. After I kiss you senseless for that._

John's reply to his bold message came quickly. Sherlock should have snorted at it, but it only made his heart falter in his chest.

_[From: John]  
That can definitely be arranged :)_

_So we'll talk when I get back tomorrow, yeah? We'll figure something out, I promise. We'll think of something. We can make this work_

_I need this to work_

_[To: John]  
Alright._

Sherlock looked at the single word, entirely insufficient, and added,

_Good night, John. Sleep well._

The answering _You too, can't wait to see you tomorrow_ actually managed to put a smile on his face.

Tomorrow wasn't that far away. He could make it till tomorrow.

* * *

Calculating the worst and actually having the worst happening were two very different things. Sherlock had learned that when fears about his childhood dog dying had kept his six-year-old self awake at night, and when his parents had buried Redbeard in the garden. He'd learned it again when the lure of the drugs had gotten so strong that stopping wasn't an option, and when the bright lights of a hospital room had been the first thing he saw after the night he'd succumbed to the temptation.

He'd known that sending John on this operation was a risk, one he was hardly willing to take, yet couldn't afford not to. But John was capable, he was aware of the dangers and of what was at stake, and so things should have worked out just fine.

But now John's last text had been two hours ago, and he really should have reported back by now, either to let him know that he was finished or that something had gone wrong. They hadn't agreed on this radio silence. It crept under Sherlock's skin, seeped into his bones, shaking him to the core as the minutes ticked by torturously slow. He didn't know what to make of it. It unsettled him, not knowing.

Molly told him to leave when, after two hours and thirty minutes, he dropped all pretence and typed out text after text, telling John to report back. He left the lab then, not knowing where to go, stopped dead in his tracks. He pressed his lips together, dialling John's number.

Voice mail, as expected.

Sherlock took a sharp turn right and left the base. The post office was a good walk away, but he'd make it in half an hour.

John had explicitly told him not to come. But he had also said that he would call back, that they would talk afterwards, so Sherlock figured that all bets were off.

When he arrived, there was no one but an old lady and a bored employee handing her a package. Chapman was nowhere to be seen. Neither was John.

Sherlock swiftly moved around the office, then stepped outside to search the property for a hint, some sort of clue to what had happened here. Nothing.

The sinking feeling in his stomach was starting to make him sick. He turned around, heading back for the base. The most logical outcome – the only one he could think of, really, was that John's cover had been blown. Something must have gone very, very wrong for John not to contact him.

The text alert of his phone startled him, completely unexpected after the hours of silence.

_[From: John]  
You need to leave. Tell Mycroft about Chapman right away_

_I'm so sorry Sherlock I can't stay, I can't be contacted with this number anymore_

_Thank you, for everything._

Sherlock stared at the words until they blurred before his eyes. Logically he understood their meaning, yet his mind refused to make sense of it.

But time was crucial, John had written. _Right away._

He wavered for a split moment before picking up his pace again. He composed a text to Mycroft as he walked, forcing his focus on the practicality of the situation and nothing else. He couldn't think about it now, not if he wanted to finish this. Not if he wanted to keep functioning. Later, he told himself, forcing down the thoughts threatening to slice him open, tear down his composure. There would be time to think about it later. Much later.

_[To: Mycroft]  
Need to leave. Not safe anymore. Was unable to recover the documents, but I know who took them. Send your secret service to arrest Mark Chapman immediately. I'll hand you proof when I'm back._

The reply was immediate, as he'd known it would be.

_[From: Mycroft]  
It's not my secret service._

_I'll send a car to escort you to the airport in two hours. Be ready._

So Sherlock got ready. He ripped open his closet as soon as he shut the door to the flat behind him, clearing his shelves, packing all electronic devices into his suitcase. He wasted no time looking at the parts of the flat he emptied, focusing solely on packing. There was no time to remember the memories from the two months he'd been there. No time to remember John sitting at the table. No time to remember his back turned to him as he fixed himself another cup of tea. No time to remember his naked form curled up on the bed, his clothes a mess on the floor.

His suitcase shut with a click. Sherlock looked up, his eyes moving over the empty shelves swiftly, taking in the flat one last time.

There was nothing left for him here. In every sense.

Sherlock checked the time. Half an hour until he was being picked up. He reached for his coat, then left.

Molly looked up when he entered the lab. She was by herself, everyone else had already gone. A small favour. She took the image of him in with one long glance, his flushed face, the coat around his shoulders, and she dropped her folder.

“Something went wrong.” It wasn't a question, just an observation.

“Good deduction.”

She came around the desk, taking in his appearance. “And you're leaving.”

“Within the hour.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know any details. John texted me to leave and inform Mycroft. He said that I can't contact him anymore.”

The words came out with difficulty, but Sherlock forced them. It was no use allowing himself to get emotional. It wouldn't change a thing, not now, not later.

To her credit, Molly didn't dwell on unimportant details. Their time was short.

“What happens now?” she asked. “What does it mean?”

It wasn't like John to just leave, they both knew that. Sherlock caught her eyes. He could see in them that she already knew the answer.

“It means I run.” He tilted his head. “And it might be better if you did, too. I don't know to what extent my cover is blown. I can't guarantee your safety here.”

She gave a quick nod. “I know what to do,” she said, giving a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. “Protocol.”

Sherlock nodded, letting his eyes move over the lab equipment as silence engulfed them. He wouldn't miss this place. He wouldn't miss the work. Only the memories. Only the one he'd made them with.

“Sherlock, I don't think- listen, I don't believe it.”

Sherlock looked up. Molly was watching him with her arms crossed. There was a crease on her forehead.

“What?”

“You.”

Sherlock frowned at the unclear statement, not bothering to ask again. She already continued, “You're acting like being left behind doesn't bother you. Like him doing that doesn't leave some kind of hole in you. You're hurting, Sherlock, and I don't think you're even admitting it to yourself.”

“What good will it do to admit to it? He'll still be gone. He's _gone,_ ” he repeated. “I'm leaving in twenty minutes, and chances are that I won't see him again, so what good will it do?”

Molly's jaw twitched as she looked at him.

“You believe that something happened to him,” she finally said. “You think they hurt him.”

Sherlock didn't grace her with a reply, the word _hurt, hurt, hurt_ throbbing in his mind.

“Don't you think he would have given you a clue, some sort of hint, if someone had forced him to send that text?”

“Of course I do,” Sherlock said sharply, drawing his eyebrows together. “Of course it's far-fetched. But what's the alternative? That he _wanted_ to leave me?”

Molly shook her head. “God, no. He didn't want to leave you, Sherlock. Of course he didn't. Even I know that, and all I've seen is the way he looks at you. Believe me. Whatever this is about, he didn't want to leave you.” She took a deep breath. “But I also don't believe that he's been taken hostage or- anything. He'll have his reasons. I can't imagine them, but I'm _sure_ that he's okay.”

Sherlock bowed his head slightly, a sign of concession. “My brother will find out soon enough either way,” he remarked with a calmness he didn't feel.

Molly looked away, biting her lip. “You're right about it not changing anything. Of course you are. But I'm your friend, Sherlock. You don't have to pretend. We both know you're not okay. Nobody would be. It's okay not to be. Just don't lie to yourself about it.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Eventually Sherlock nodded and she stepped forward, giving him a gentle hug as she allowed his reply to go unspoken. Sherlock froze for a second, taken by surprise, before he hesitantly put his arm around her.

When she drew back she sniffed once, nodding as well. Her eyes were entirely too understanding. “Well. Goodbye, Sherlock,” was all she said.

He let his eyes roam over her face, then replied, “Goodbye, Molly. Maybe I'll see you again in London sometime.”

And with those words he turned around and left.

He checked the time, then went to get his luggage. The car was already waiting for him when he stepped outside. He got in without looking back, staring straight ahead. His phone vibrated as the driver took him away from the base.

It was another text from Mycroft.

_[From: Mycroft]  
Chapman has been arrested. Well done, Sherlock. Now it's time to come home, brother mine._

 

* * *

_End of Part I_

 


	6. Part II: Berlin, Germany

It was a cold morning in London. Sherlock walked through the familiar streets with his coat collar up, avoiding the people hurrying past him left and right. It had cooled down during the night. His breath hung in the air in white puffs, but he paid no attention to it.

He'd spent the early morning at Scotland Yard, working on a theft case that had turned into murder. It was only the latest in a string of cases, some of them from the website he'd set up, some from DI Lestrade, who valued his help as much as Sherlock valued the access to crime scenes. His website had gotten more traffic only recently, after a case he'd solved for a big-name client had gone viral. He figured that as far as working independently went, it wasn't a bad shot.

Sherlock had been back in London for six weeks, and though he'd settled into his new routine soon enough, something felt off.

It wasn't that the city was different. It was, of course, because no piece of London ever remained quite the same for any longer amount of time. It was that Sherlock himself was changed.

He'd gone to Estonia as a strained man on the brink of a relapse, and he'd returned to London as a strained man on the brink of a relapse, but it was different. The outer shell was the same, but he himself, inside, was changed on a fundamental level. The people he'd met, the things he'd experienced, they were as much part of him now as his bones and flesh and skull, as the craving that had made a home in him so long ago, as the streets he was walking on, the same way he'd done since he was a child.

He huffed, another white puff appearing before his face. Sentiment.

He'd received an email from Molly again the night before. He'd been surprised when she first contacted him, but figured that the occasional, if not frequent exchanges were rather pleasant, if somewhat elaborate on her part sometimes. Sherlock knew that it was her way of expressing that she cared. He didn't mind.

They rarely talked about what had happened. She was now working at a hospital in Scotland, after her last job in Ireland, the one she'd taken after Tallinn, had ended. Not quite London yet, she'd joked in her last message, but close.

Sherlock would like to see her again sometime, but he knew that this also wasn't the reason for his strange mood. Yes, he was different. Yes, his time in Tallinn had given him something he'd never thought he could have, only to take it from him again.

But the thing that really, truly ate at him, was the craving.

He'd left with one addiction and come back with two.

One was easily taken care of, especially back where Sherlock knew precisely where to go, who to ask when he wanted a fix. Some things _had_ changed, but not everything. Not so much that Sherlock couldn't find his way back into the scene with ease.

The other one was... insatiable.

It drove Sherlock mad. In a quiet, slow, consuming kind of way.

This was a lesson his mother had taught him that had stuck: when it itches, scratch somewhere else. It was only later on that Sherlock learned to appreciate the power of a thorough distraction, and he was finding himself in more desperate need of one every day.

He wasn't going to give in, though. He wasn't going to taint the memory of John with something as deplorable as drugs. He couldn't. John had believed him to be in control, on that night after their first dinner. Long before they'd been together. Before they'd even kissed. He'd had faith in him, where even Sherlock hadn't had any in himself. That wasn't something he could just throw away.

And anyway, he told himself. As long as the itch remained intact it served as a reminder that what he was missing, what they'd shared, had been real.

But an itch was an itch, distracting, taunting, keeping his focus from what was going on around him. And Sherlock was a restless person, impatient, partial to frustration at endless repetition.

Sherlock had been back in London for six weeks, and it didn't come as a surprise when his feet eventually carried him to Mycroft's office.

He walked straight through to the door and knocked. Not bothering to wait for a reply he twisted the handle, stepping inside.

Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, an open file before him. Sherlock could see the red seal from where he stood.

If Mycroft was surprised to see him, his face didn't show it.

“Sherlock,” he said in greeting, nodding towards the empty chair. “Do come in.”

He closed the file when Sherlock sat down, folding his hands together. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Cut the formalities, Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “You know why I'm here.”

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. “Do I?”

Sherlock pressed his lips together, fighting the urge to rise to the bait. “Tell me,” he demanded instead, fixing his brother with a hard stare.

“I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about, brother dear.”

“John. Tell me what you know about John.” He set his jaw. “Please.”

Mycroft narrowed his eyes slightly, tilting his head as he looked at Sherlock. Sherlock let out a frustrated breath after several seconds of silence.

“You know something, don't you? Why can't you just tell me?”

Mycroft regarded him for a long time, his face inscrutable. Sherlock fidgeted under his gaze but let him look anyway, knowing that this was the only way he would ever get an answer.

“I'm not allowed to tell you information about our agents, former or not,” he finally said.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, giving him an impatient look. “Tell me anyway.”

Mycroft sighed. “I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't do that. Protocol is protocol.”

Sherlock stared at him, then shook his head. He got up, turning around without another word.

“But that doesn't matter,” Mycroft's voice cut through to him when he was almost at the door, and Sherlock turned again. “I don't need to tell you anything.”

He paused for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. “Say, brother, have you ever been to Eastern Germany?”

“No,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes slightly. _And you know that as well as I do._ He quirked an eyebrow. “Is it nice?” he asked, returning to his seat.

“Dreadful, this time of the year.” Mycroft opened his drawer to take out a file. He handed it to Sherlock, who never took his eyes off him. “What do you say? Do you want to go?”

Sherlock lowered his gaze to look at the file, the red seal immediately catching his eye. He flipped the cover, scanning the first page. Details on the location, near the British Embassy in central Berlin.

“What do I have to do?” Sherlock asked.

“It's not an active job this time. No cover. No actual field work. Merely... research.”

“What am I supposed to research?”

“Whom," Mycroft corrected. "Sebastian Moran.”

Sherlock's eyes shot up. “You still haven't caught him?” he asked, and Mycroft shook his head.

“It became clear that Mark Chapman was telling the truth about never having met him in person after... thorough interrogation. Moran was the one who contacted him about the documents. Their entire exchange played out via email.”

Sherlock's lips curled at the mention of Chapman. He only knew that he was in a high-security prison now, following a quick and clean trial. The documents had still been where he'd put them for Moran to find, no data had been lost. The only mystery that remained was the identity of Sebastian Moran, who couldn't be found in any databases.

“So you want me to find out who he his.”

“Precisely. More information about his past or current whereabouts, mainly. If you can find the man himself, all the better.”

Sherlock gave a non-committal hum. “Why Berlin?”

Mycroft's lips curled into a small smile. “It's as good a place to start from as any.” He paused, his voice growing ever so slightly softer as he continued, “I rather think you'll like being there.”

Sherlock held his gaze, then bowed his head. “When do I leave?”

“Whenever you see fit.”

Sherlock nodded. “This weekend, then.”

“I'll arrange your flight. Take the file with you,” Mycroft instructed. “I'll be in touch.”

“I know you will,” Sherlock muttered as he got up. Mycroft didn't comment.

“Patience, brother mine,” he said instead, and his voice sounded so uncharacteristically kind that Sherlock turned around again. Mycroft regarded him with an unreadable expression, but Sherlock saw the hint of a smile tugging on his lips. “It is a virtue, as they say.”

Then he looked away and Sherlock, clearly having been dismissed, headed for the door.

“Oh, one more thing,” he remembered as he twisted the doorknob, turning again. “I'm sure you know of a facility that's in desperate need of a pathologist, somewhere in or around London. I recommend you suggest Molly Hooper for the job. She's highly qualified and I personally hold her in very high regards.”

He knew that the uncommon praise from him would make Mycroft listen, and he was right. Mycroft raised his chin, giving him an appraising look before bowing his head.

“I'll keep it in mind.”

Sherlock nodded once and left.

* * *

The climate was similar to his usual surroundings, but the air seemed to smell different in Berlin. Sherlock had only been to Germany once, years ago, and he'd never been to the capital.

Despite being a metropolis as well, the city was nothing like London. Less people, different streets, no rush like he knew from home. Still, the diverse architecture and districts offered a rich selection of sights and impressions. Sherlock supposed that he could get by here.

He took a cab from the airport, letting his eyes roam over the city on the short ride to his accommodation.

Mycroft had arranged a flat for him, a fifteen-minute walk away from the embassy. He wouldn't be spending much time there, but there was a contact person for him, should he need one. The embassy had been involved in two incidents he wanted to investigate as well, so it was a good place to start.

Unlike the rooms in Tallin, this flat wasn't part of a military base, and though it wasn't posh Sherlock was pleasantly surprised.

The windows were wide and allowed the light into the rooms, quite contrary to the flat Sherlock had lived in during his time in Estonia. The furniture was simple but sufficient, the walls tarnished but clean. There was a separate kitchen and a bathroom he could actually move around in, along with a bedroom and a study.

It didn't have the air of home like his London flat, but it would do nicely.

Sherlock heaved his suitcase onto the bed, making quick work of packing away his clothes and setting up what he'd need. A glance at his phone when he was done told him that it was still early in the day, and so he decided to step outside and explore.

His flat wasn't far from the most popular sights the city had to offer. Sherlock only walked for a few minutes before he stood under the Brandenburg Gate – he left quickly, though, weary of the increasing crowds of tourists engulfing him.

He turned to another direction, ending up at the Spree only a few minutes later. He followed the river for a while before growing bored and turning again, exploring the streets around his flat. He was pleased to see several diners and delivery services amidst the fancy restaurants.

With the knowledge that he wouldn't have to starve if he got assailed by sudden hunger he turned around, deciding that he'd seen quite enough of his new surroundings for the first day.

He spotted a supermarket on his way home and stepped inside to grab a few essentials. He left twenty minutes later with two boxes of Earl Grey, a bottle of milk, toast and honey, and, following a recommendation from one of the shop assistants, a package of German biscuits with the ridiculous name _Prinzenrolle._

Back home he changed into his dressing gown, flopping on the sofa with the biscuits and a steaming cup. He pulled out the file Mycroft had given him as the tea cooled down, opening it in front of him.

He bit into a biscuit, his thoughts drifting as he chewed. He didn't know why his brother had sent him here, here specifically, but there was an ulterior motive. Considering that he'd made the suggestion in the context of Sherlock's enquiry about John, he could only hope that it would get him information on the matter one way or another, though he couldn't yet see how.

But Mycroft, as loath as he was to admit it, was usually right, and so there was nothing to do but wait it out.

He pushed the last bit of the biscuit into his mouth, then swallowed it down with a sip of his tea. He supposed that while he waited, this wasn't a bad way to get by. He caught the crumbs at the corner of his mouth with his finger and licked it clean before reaching for the file.

The biscuits really were quite tasty. Sherlock took another one as he flipped the file open, reaching for the list he'd compiled. He nibbled on the top half of the biscuit, exposing the chocolate spread inside before biting off the rest.

There were three people in Berlin who had been in touch with Sebastian Moran. One of the reports was quite recent, the other two from different points in the previous year. That was where Sherlock would start looking in order to unravel the mystery around Moran.

He made up his mind and closed the file, grabbing another biscuit as he settled back on the sofa. There wasn't much else he could do tonight, so he saved pondering the matter for tomorrow and closed his eyes. For now he would retreat into his mind palace. And tomorrow he'd start investigating.

* * *

Saskia Lember had been in prison for five months when Sherlock went to visit her. She was in her mid-thirties and her hair looked greyer than on the picture he'd seen, but she returned his calculating assessment with a raised chin and a steady gaze.

“I don't often get handsome, British visitors,” she said in accented, but clear English when he introduced himself. “What is this about?”

“I'm here because of an investigation,” Sherlock said, switching to English as well. “It's centered around Sebastian Moran.”

Her eyes widened before she sat back, crossing her arms. “I should have known this was about him,” she said, ducking her head a little. “That bastard got me into this mess in the first place.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Why are you in prison, Mrs. Lember?”

“Do you not have a file on me?”

“I do, but I'd prefer to hear the story from you. I'm sure you can give a clearer account than a factual file from the government.”

She nodded. “Fair enough. I held a minor position in a pharmaceutical company when Moran approached me. I was important enough to have access to all the vital bits of information, but unimportant enough to be overlooked when it came to safety measures. He must have done his research before he contacted me. I was the perfect fit for his plan.”

“You never saw him in person, did you?”

“No. He always contacted me via email or on my mobile phone.”

“Did you ever hear his voice?”

She shook her head. “Texts only. He knows what he's doing, the clever bastard. When they caught me I had absolutely nothing to tell them about him other than his name, which is an alias, as you probably know.”

“And how did they catch you?”

Mrs. Lember sucked in her lip, her gaze growing unfocused as she thought back. “I was in... financial trouble when he first approached me. My sister got sick, I had to hire a caregiver to look after her. At the time I could hardly support myself. I was still relatively new at the company, and the job didn't earn me as much as I needed to pay off my debts. My parents are dead and we have no other family, so it was up to me to take care of her.”

“Do you think Moran knew about your situation?”

“He must have. I was just what he needed. I don't believe in coincidences like that.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “The universe is rarely so lazy.”

She bowed her head once. “Well, he sent me an email one day, telling me that I didn't know him, but that he knew me. Offered to buy top secret information I should steal from the company. I wasn't going to reply, but the sum of money he mentioned... it would have solved my sister's problems and more. Then I got another email. He promised to split the money he would get from selling the information to rival companies.”

“You agreed after two emails?”

She fixed him with a stare, but nodded. “I wrote back telling him that I wanted to meet up to discuss details. He replied that it would be safer if we didn't. He transferred part of the money he'd promised to _motivate_ me, as he called it. I got the information he wanted and dropped it off at a post office box he'd named before. The next day, the police were at my door.”

“What happened then?”

“I was arrested, interrogated, imprisoned. An 'anonymous tip' led them to me, they said. I think we all know who that was. The information was gone, of course. The bastard used me and then blew the whistle on me, and I fell for it.”

Her mouth twisted into a bitter line. Her nails dug into her palm as she stared at the table.

“Did you think of anything else since you've been here that you might have forgotten before?” Sherlock asked, and her eyes focused on his face again.

“Mr. Holmes, believe me when I say that I want this asshole behind bars more than anyone. I told you everything I know. As I said, he's clever enough to know exactly what he's doing.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock said. “But now I'm on the case, and I daresay that he's not clever enough to outsmart me.”

He pushed his chair back to stand up. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Lember.”

She watched him button his coat, tilting her head. “Since you're here, I assume something new happened with him?”

“Yes.”

“And you still haven't caught him?”

“We're working on it,” Sherlock said shortly. “I appreciate your help on the matter. Goodbye.”

He felt her eyes on his back as he left, following him until he was gone from the room. His visit hadn't been very informative, which wasn't unexpected. But Saskia Lember's account had helped him form a mental picture of the man he was looking for, to get a sense for his personality.

He stopped by a Chinese takeaway on his way home, taking three different dishes with him. Back at his flat he changed into his pyjamas before trying the food. He put the noodles away after only one bite; poor seasoning. The sweet-and-sour chicken was satisfactory, though not as tasty as the one from Sherlock's favourite Chinese in London. The dim sum was a little spicy for his taste, but the duck was good.

John would have liked it.

He swallowed down the bite, then dropped the fork. He wasn't all that hungry.

The file on Moran was where he'd left it last night. Sherlock moved to fetch it, then took out a list he'd started. He added a few characteristics: _extremely careful, financially secure, intelligent, knowledge of human nature, calculating._

Not enough to go on, but he hoped that speaking to the other two people Moran had contacted would provide enough insight for a first sketch.

Sherlock let out a deep exhale, narrowing his eyes at the file. The smell of the food was penetrating. The different scents mixed in the air and filled up his nose, making his stomach clench. He closed the lids on the boxes. Staring at the cluttered table, he sighed.

It wouldn't do to get bored on his second day in Berlin. It just wouldn't do. Because getting bored meant becoming restless, and if he became restless he'd go looking for a distraction, and Sherlock knew that the craving sitting in his chest only waited for moments of weakness like that.

Sherlock didn't know where to get cocaine in Berlin, but he had no doubt that he could find out within the night. And that was something he couldn't allow himself to do. Almost seven months clean. Seven months of hard work and struggles and progress, of regaining control step by step. That wasn't something he could just throw away.

Sherlock pushed the list away and got up. His violin was still in its case. Its weight was familiar and comforting in his hand when he took it out, brushing over the smooth fabric. He raised the bow and played for the first time in his new home.

* * *

Sherlock's contact person at the embassy was younger than he'd expected someone in her position to be, but he could tell from a single glance that she'd gotten this job for a reason.

She was on the phone when Sherlock went to see her, gesturing him inside, where he waited for her to finish.

“Sarah Fraser,” she introduced herself when she ended the call, shaking his hand before waving towards a chair. “Sorry about the wait. Have a seat, Mr. Holmes.”

Her faint accent confirmed Sherlock's suspicion that she was half Scottish. He sat down, waiting for her to finish typing something on her laptop.

“You arrived this week, didn't you? How do you like Berlin so far?”

Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes at the small talk. “It's a good enough alternative to London,” he said, offering a quick smile. She nodded and then went straight to business, which he appreciated.

“I didn't expect you to show up here quite so early. Your brother said that you wouldn't bother unless you needed something.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched. “Did he, now. Well, loath as I am to concede it, my brother does know my ways. I need to speak to Christian Beck. Is he available today?”

Beck's was the second name on the list of people that had been contacted by Moran. Mrs. Fraser reached for the phone. “Let me check that for you,” she said shortly.

She dialled a number and Sherlock let his eyes drift through the room, taking in the painstakingly clean and tidy desk, the picture of Mrs. Fraser with another woman that was tilted away from him, the short cut of her nails, the filled calendar next to her laptop.

Neat and reliable to the core. He could work with her just fine, if need be.

“He's out until the late afternoon, and then he'll be occupied with a conference. I could let him know that you'll step by tomorrow morning, though. Does around ten work for you?”

Sherlock nodded courtly. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome. How have you been faring so far?”

Sherlock gave a brief account of his visit to Saskia Lember, and she nodded along. “I doubt Beck will be able to tell you more, but if it helps you get a clearer picture of Moran, by all means, talk to him. You're our best chance of finding that man right now. Your discovery in Estonia was rather groundbreaking in the matter. The investigation was more or less put on ice before that.”

“I intend to find him,” Sherlock replied, then added, “and I wouldn't call it groundbreaking, considering that I only paid attention to the facts I needed to solve my own case. Moran was a lucky side effect.”

Her lips moved to show a slight smile. “You must be very good at paying attention, then.”

Sherlock lifted a single eyebrow. That was practically an invitation if he ever saw one. He leaned forwards, giving her a considering look.

“The set of your shoulders tells me that you've been injured in your teenage years, possibly during a playing accident as a child, most likely due to a fall from your horse. You had Chicken teriyaki for lunch, which you must really like, since you had it twice this week, as the receipt next to the printer tells me. A look at your calendar lets me know that you had to reschedule this morning's conference with London because there was a problem with your car.

“But that's not everything. I know you have a younger brother who's currently in Thailand and whom you're very close to. I know you're looking into getting a cat – not a dog, because you don't have the time to take care of one. I know you have been married to your wife for at least two years, no longer than four. I know you're open about your identity and prepared to shut down inappropriate comments if need be. I know all of that simply because I paid attention to what you showed me."

Sitting back, he finished with, "Fulfil your expectations?”

He slowly blew the air through his nose as he fell silent. It had simply been too long, he'd forgotten just how good it felt to practice his skills.

Mrs. Fraser sat back in her chair, tilting her head. “I can see why you succeeded where everyone else failed.” Her eyebrows lifted in appreciation. Sherlock blinked in surprise, not quite used to such a mild response. “I'll be in touch, Mr. Holmes. Feel free to contact me at any point.”

Her reaction almost got a smile out of Sherlock. He nodded, then got up. “Thank you, Mrs. Fraser.”

“If there's anything else you need, let me know.”

She extended her hand and Sherlock shook it, then paused. “I take it you're bound to your desk and not available for... legwork?”

“Do you need someone to accompany you?” she asked with the raise of an eyebrow, getting straight to the point.

“Only if it's someone who isn't an idiot,” Sherlock said plainly. To his surprise, the corner of her mouth lifted.

“I'll ask around if anyone's available. Anyone I don't deem an idiot, of course. Goodbye, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock gave her a half-smile and a nod and then left her office.

* * *

The meeting with Christian Beck proved uneventful, if not a little disappointing. Sherlock was unable to get any information out of him that he hadn't already gathered. If anything, Beck seemed to grow more agitated by the minute, fidgeting under his increasingly sharper questions.

“I'm really sorry,” Beck said, shaking his head with a frown. He let out a frustrated breath. “Those two mails were everything I ever heard from him. He made his offer, I asked him if it was a joke and why he thought I wouldn't hand our correspondence over to the police, he threatened me, and that was it.”

“You reported the incident after he threatened you?”

“Yes.”

“And he didn't follow through with it?”

“No. I wasn't sure that he wouldn't, but the reaction to my report was rather strong. The press caught on, and I think that's what stopped him from... framing me with fraud or whatever it is he had planned.”

Sherlock sat back, pressing his palms together as he thought about his words. “So you assume that he was trying to keep a low profile?”

“It does seem that way, don't you think?”

“It does,” Sherlock replied, narrowing his eyes. “But it doesn't make sense. The name Sebastian Moran is definitely an alias. He's attracted quite some attention around it, and yet he keeps using it.”

“Doesn't seem like something someone who wants to be discreet would do,” Beck said after a slight pause.

“Indeed it doesn't,” Sherlock agreed.

And so he added another few key point to his list when he got home.

_Narcissistic tendencies, probably big ego. Possible weakness; hasn't provoked him to slip up so far._

At least the visit hadn't been completely for nothing.

* * *

As easy as that, between various takeaways and visits to the embassy, questionings of the known witnesses and dodging the occasional call from Mycroft, Sherlock settled into his new life. He started planning his next steps, figured out the best restaurants that delivered past midnight, found the best time slots to take the tube, and managed to go several days without seeking out a dealer.

Sherlock had been in Berlin for just a little over a week, and though he had felt like he was waiting for something, the ringing of the doorbell still took him by surprise.

Or rather, the person who had rung the bell.

For a split second Sherlock wasn't sure whether he was hallucinating when he opened the door. It had happened before, but always under the influence of illegal substances. He was quite sober now.

John looked just like he'd done in Estonia, and yet completely different. The sight of him was so unexpected that every detail of his face jutted out as new – the several shades of blonde and brown in his hair, mixed with the occasional grey, the lines around his eyes, the shape of his nose, his thin, rosy lips, wet now from his tongue darting out as he returned Sherlock's look in silence.

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but no sound came out. In the end it was John who spoke first.

“Hello, stranger,” he said, his voice slightly wavering. “God, I knew it would be you. I _knew_ it.”

Sherlock swallowed. “John,” he said, thickly, and his voice sounded all wrong, but John's face seemed to light up at the sound like it was the most beautiful word to ever be uttered, and Sherlock involuntarily stopped breathing. He couldn't help it; how could he, with John smiling at him like that, after all those weeks?

“How did you find me?”

“Heard people at the embassy talking about you. Posh British bloke, they said. Can tell you things about yourself you didn't even know within five minutes of meeting you.” His lips curved into a beaming smile. “Who else?”

Sherlock noticed belatedly that he was frozen in place, blocking the way into the flat. “I didn't think I would see you again,” he said, for lack of better words, shifting on the spot. His limbs were heavy, unable to allow him to reach out while yelling at him to touch at the same time, to make sure he was real.

John stepped closer, and Sherlock's eyes dropped to his mouth on their own account, following the movement of his tongue as he wetted his lips. "I thought about you every day while I was gone."

“I never wasn't thinking of you,” Sherlock replied, and then their lips were pressing against each other in a sudden, desperate kiss.

And there it was, the feeling Sherlock had been chasing for nearly two months. The sensation that made his veins sing and his mind quiet, the addictive mix of peace and adrenaline seeping through his body.

And how real John was. Flesh and blood and slick lips pressing against his, heavy breath coming in ragged huffs, his face close and solid and _beautiful_ up close. Sherlock had forgotten how beautiful he looked when he kissed him.

John's lips moved beneath his and Sherlock drew his brows together, releasing a shuddering breath as he tilted his head to follow.

John's taste was indescribable, so achingly familiar and yet shocking in the revelations it held for Sherlock as his tongue moved over the seam of his lips. He shuddered as the sensations washed over him. He'd never been able to recreate just how exactly the warmth of John's lips felt on his, how the gentle explorations of their mouths turned his insides into jelly. Memory just couldn't do it justice.

They eventually broke for air, both their chests heaving, and Sherlock leaned in again as soon as he'd caught his breath, nibbling John's lips softly.

“John,” he sighed, and John opened his eyes.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered, inhaling deeply.

Sherlock cleared his throat as his heartbeat calmed down from the high of the kiss. He held the door open wider as he moved to the side. “Would you like to come in?”

John smiled, genuinely, relieved, the most beautiful sight Sherlock had seen in ages. “I would like that very much,” he said, and stepped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I set the second part of this story in Germany for the simple reason that I know the country and the language, and in Berlin because it's cool. Though I've actually never been there (I know, unacceptable), so keep in mind that the portrayal of the city is only based on some research and the help of Google Maps :)  
> \- 'Prinzenrolle' translates to something like princes roll and is a real brand of sandwich biscuits that were an essential part of my childhood


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how it had happened, but somewhere between the front door and the living room their hands and lips had connected, clutching each other in what was building up to be a spectacular kiss.

John's knee was between his thighs and he spread them willingly as he gripped his face, moaning into his mouth when their tongues met. John inhaled sharply, pressing his torso to Sherlock's, whose back was flush against the wall.

Their hips rubbed together in an enticing almost-rhythm, the friction drowning out every other sensation. Sherlock's focus narrowed down to John's body pressed up against him.

And yet, a small voice at the back of his mind remained, rattling down thought after deduction after intrusive jabs of panic that, if he closed his eyes for one second, this scenario would fall apart, the image would fade, and he'd be left on his own, bereft of what he wanted most in that moment.

Sherlock did close his eyes when the sensations grew too strong. The world remained where it was. He wrapped his arms around John's shoulders, his waist, moving to his hips, feeling with every heartbeat that he was right here.

And yet.

“John,” he murmured as the voice became too loud to ignore, his brows a tight line. “John. Why did you leave me?”

John stilled against his lips, and Sherlock belatedly realised how much he'd shown his hand with that question. Not _why did you leave_. Why did you leave _me_.

Just a simple word, two letters, a tiny sound, and yet, it made all the difference. The semantic distinction was enormous, and Sherlock didn't know whether he'd added the single syllable on accident or on purpose.

John drew back, leaving Sherlock cold where the empty space took his place. “Sherlock, I think we need to talk before we take this any further,” he breathed out, taking a step away from him. “You deserve that. We shouldn't do it like this.”

Sherlock opened his eyes reluctantly, staring at the ground as his breathing returned to normal. When his chest stopped heaving he looked up, meeting John's eyes. He gave a nod, and John, clearly having waited for the sign, raised his hand to brush his fingers over Sherlock's cheek. “I'll make tea, yeah?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Please.”

He stayed in place as John went to the kitchen after squeezing his hand gently. His eyes closed as he heard the familiar sounds of him rattling in the next room. How could it be so familiar, more so than his own footsteps, Mycroft's voice, the ping of his phone? It had no right to be so familiar. It was irrational.

It was undeniable proof that John had carved a place for himself into Sherlock's life in the short time that they'd known each other, and when he wasn't there, all that Sherlock was left with was an aching, empty hole.

And now that he was aware of it, he didn't know if he could live through it a second time.

He pushed himself off the wall when the kettle started to boil. Maybe they did need to talk before picking up where they'd left off, like nothing had happened in between.

John slid a cup between his hands with a small smile as he sat down at the table. Sherlock closed them around the porcelain, warming his fingers on the steam. John sat down across him, his feet brushing Sherlock's. He blew on his own cup, never drawing back from the touch.

When it became clear that John was waiting for him to start, Sherlock said, “I missed you too when you were gone. I didn't know I could miss anyone the way I missed you. I never have, before you.”

John's expression tightened. “I'm here now,” he offered. His foot moved against Sherlock's ankle.

He nodded. “I'm glad that you are.”

“Me too. And that _you_ are. I don't even know how you're here, but I'm so glad that I found you.”

Sherlock gave a wry smile. “Mycroft,” he said, and John raised his eyebrows. “He interfered, as usual. Though I can't say that I mind, this time.”

John smiled back, but the frown on his face remained. Sherlock took a mouthful of his tea, careful not to burn his tongue.

“Where's Mary?” he then asked, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.

“She's away. Working. I'm to wait for her here.”

“Is that why you're here, in Berlin? Because of her work?” John nodded. “Have you been here all this time?”

“After a brief stop at Ramstein, yes. I've been to the embassy a couple of times, done a bit of freelance work for them here and there,” he said as a way of explanation, giving a wry smile that quickly faded. “But it was Mary who chose this place. I just adapted. She was the reason I had to leave so suddenly, too.”

His voice was serious now. “I didn't want to, trust me. God, how I didn't want to leave you behind. But there was nothing I could have said to her that would have justified my staying behind. I told myself that you'd have to go anyway because of the Chapman affair, and so I left, but-”

He took a deep breath, then continued lowly, “God, I missed you so much. I really did think about you, all the time. I wanted to contact you, but I didn't know how. I had to get rid of my phone, and I assumed so would you. I didn't even have Mycroft's number anymore.”

“Which changes constantly, so it wouldn't have been of much use to you anyway,” Sherlock remarked. He bit his lip, unable to stop his eyes from roaming over John's face as he thought. “Mary made you leave?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she noticed something? About... us? Does she know?”

“No. Absolutely not. If she did, she- we would know. If she'd found out. But her reasoning was legit. I couldn't argue with it.”

Sherlock blew out a harsh breath. “You couldn't have explained?”

John's mouth was a hard line. “I'm sorry, Sherlock." The crease on his forehead deepened. Sherlock thought that it might become permanent. “I know it's no excuse, but it's all I can offer.”

Sherlock frowned into his cup. They'd hardly been back together at all, and already the side of John he'd never let Sherlock see was coming between them.

But they _were_ back together, after weeks apart and in a different place entirely, with creases in their foreheads and things still unsaid, and yet, here they were.

Sherlock put down his cup. That was all that mattered. That was all he could bear to think about right now, John, here, next to him, and he _wanted_ him. He leaned in to press their lips together. John responded immediately, clutching at him like a drowning man.

“Oh god,” he moaned, pulling him closer. His lips parted and Sherlock followed suit, and soon they were snogging until Sherlock's head swam. It was like his body only realised now what it had lost all those weeks ago, trying to make up for it in case this would be stolen from him again.

“Oh, god, Sherlock,” John sighed into the kiss.

“John, let's-” Sherlock gasped, and that was all the prompting he needed. They stumbled up from their chairs at the same time, mouths and hands fumbling for each other. Sherlock brought his hand up to keep John in place while John blindly attempted to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.

“God, you're so beautiful,” he mumbled, dragging one hand down the exposed line of pale skin.

His fingers reached the last button and he pushed the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock dropped his hands from John's face and dragged them down his torso, slipping beneath the hem of his jumper.

John gasped at the coolness of his fingers, then reached down to pull the fabric over his head. He let the jumper fall to the ground, next to Sherlock's shirt.

They stopped to look at each other for a beat, both their chests heaving, and then their eyes locked and they stepped into each other's arms.

Sherlock let out a deep sigh at the feeling of John's chest against his. He remembered the sensation, and yet it was that much more intense than he'd anticipated, having his skin on his own again, free of any barriers, close enough to touch and smell and taste.

He sought John's mouth for a kiss that he felt would suffocate him if John didn't allow it. Their lips parted with a soft sound, barely audible over their loud breathing, and he gripped his face, opening his eyes when John's hand came up to cover his.

“Let's go to the bedroom,” he suggested, his voice a rough rumble, and John closed his eyes at the sound, exhaling through his parted lips.

“Lead the way,” he said, stealing another kiss before letting him turn around.

Unwilling to let go of him completely, Sherlock gripped John's hand as he pulled him along. He reached for him as soon as they stood in front of the bed, but John forestalled him. He aligned their bodies and brought his lips to Sherlock's neck, leaving a trail of kisses down the tender skin to the juncture of his shoulder.

Sherlock's breath caught despite the barely tangible touches. He gripped John's shoulder, mindful of the scar, moving his other hand down his chest, through the scarce amount of hair down to his navel.

John eased off his neck, drawing back to catch his eyes. His fingers moved to Sherlock's belt, playing with the rim, and Sherlock nodded in answer to the unspoken question.

The belt was followed by the button of his trousers, and John moved back to let him step out of his clothes. His own jeans hit the floor just a moment later, along with his pants. They looked at each other breathlessly, drinking in the sight of their naked bodies.

It should have felt weird, undressing in front of another person, feeling their eyes on your exposed body at any given moment. But it didn't. There was no self-consciousness, no hesitation. This was exactly what they were supposed to do, how it was supposed to be. It was right and good and wonderful, and Sherlock needed _more_.

He let himself fall onto the bed, pulling John along with him. John followed willingly, sinking onto his mouth with a sigh when their naked bodies pressed against each other. His erection lay heavy on Sherlock's thigh, a warm, enticing weight.

Sherlock wrapped his arms around his waist, then moved to flip them over. John huffed out a quiet laugh beneath him and Sherlock smirked, crawling over him to kiss him again. He felt bold like this, like John's touch turned all his doubts and insecurities into nothingness.

John's arms came up to wrap around his neck, keeping him in place, and Sherlock thought he might drown in the sensation of being engulfed by his warmth, the smell that was so uniquely him.

He bowed down to press his lips to his forehead, feeling the movement of his face as he smiled. Then he kissed his cheek, his lips, nibbled at his jaw, moving farther down until he was hovering over his chest.

He catalogued him in the only way he knew how, with care and attention to every detail. The texture of his chest hair, the puckered skin around his scar, the tender flesh of his belly that twitched under his touch.

He remained there for a while, nuzzling the warm skin, the endearing gathering of softness. John slipped his hand into his hair at one point, threading his fingers through his curls, and Sherlock closed his eyes, shivers running down his spine at the slight pull.

He licked small stripes on John's stomach, over his bellybutton, before following the trail of hair that led down to his groin. He kissed his hipbone, then shifted to get lower, placing his lips on the inside of his thigh.

John's smell was strong here, catching Sherlock's attention, filling his head, throwing him off track momentarily. He loved his smell. It was undeniably, definitely _John_.

He pressed his lips to his thigh again, sucking a small bruise there. Then he moved to his erection.

“Wait,” John said, his voice breathy, and Sherlock stilled. “Do you have anything here? Condoms?”

“No,” Sherlock mumbled, lowering his head again to kiss the juncture of John's hip and thigh. “But I haven't been with anyone since you. And I haven't relapsed. I'm clean.”

“Still. I should be clean as well, but I don't want to risk it. I'll get tested for next time, okay?”

Sherlock lifted his head, blinking repeatedly. John raised his head as well, frowning when he saw his expression. “What is it? Are you-” His face fell. “I mean, do you not want a next time? Sorry, I just assumed-”

The kiss Sherlock attacked him with effectively silenced him. “Are you insane?” he muttered, pecking his lips repeatedly.

“Okay, that's clear enough,” John said, huffing out a relieved laugh. Sherlock kissed him again for it. “I'll get tested. Promise.”

“Does that mean that I have to hold myself back this time?” Sherlock purred, blinking at him through his lashes. John swallowed.

“That depends entirely on your definition of holding back,” he replied. Sherlock didn't miss the rough undertone of his voice. “As long as it doesn't involve, you know, your mouth, by all means, go for it.”

Sherlock bucked his hips, letting his cock slide against John's. John gasped, and Sherlock smirked.

“I intend to,” he promised, then leaned down to kiss his jaw. “We can save _that,_ ” he mumbled, licking over John's pulse, “for another time, then.”

John groaned, a deep, frustrated sound. He gripped Sherlock's waist, canting his hips as well to get stimulation where Sherlock denied it.

“Tease,” he accused, slightly breathless. Sherlock only stole another kiss in response. Then his own aching erection redirected his focus downwards. He slid down the bed, kissing various parts of John's body before stopping at his stomach once more.

“You really like that, don't you,” John said under his breath when he nudged his belly with his nose.

“It's perfect,” Sherlock declared. Then he reached between them and wrapped his hand around John's cock. John let out a hiss, throwing his head back.

“God.”

“Mhh,” Sherlock hummed, his eyes sliding down to his fingers. He began to move gently, a slow rhythm to ease him into it, applying the barest pressure. He leaned down when John groaned, showering his torso with kisses.

He obediently followed when John's hands tugged on his shoulders to pull him up, bringing their lips together. He gasped into John's mouth when he reached between them, wrapping his own hand around Sherlock's erection.

“I've got you,” John panted, rubbing circles onto his back with his free hand.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “I know.”

He sped up his movements, his breath coming harder when John followed suit.

“Like that?” he asked, licking his lips, and Sherlock nodded fervently as the heat built in his stomach. He wouldn't take long at this rate, and the only consolation was that John seemed equally affected.

“John,” he gasped, letting his head fall, and John understood, could read him like a book as he changed his pace to give Sherlock exactly what he needed to push him over the edge. Sherlock pressed his face into the curve of John's shoulder, letting out muffled groans as he gave himself over to the pleasure, John's erection momentarily forgotten.

“It's okay,” John mumbled, stroking him fast and hard, “it's okay, I've got you, let go,” and that did it. Sherlock was glad for John's skin, muffling the string of sounds he let out as his orgasm washed through him in electrifying waves, leaving him panting with delicious aftershocks.

John was mumbling into his ear when he revived. “Gorgeous, so fucking gorgeous,” he muttered, sounding as breathless as Sherlock felt, and Sherlock blindly wrapped his hand around him again.

John let out a gasp at the touch of his fingers. Sherlock's thumb came away wet when he brushed the tip of his cock. He wouldn't take long either. Sherlock settled into the rhythm John had just used on him, alternating between fast and slow, hard and gentle, to catalogue the different responses John gave. Then he pumped quickly, with a firm grip, twisting his wrist every time he reached the top, and John's eyes flew closed as he let out a string of breathy moans.

“I've got you,” Sherlock repeated his own soothing words, his lips parted as he stared at John's face. “John.”

John's hips bucked at the sound of his name and he came without another warning, spilling between them to add to the mess Sherlock had made. His breath came in short huffs. Sherlock, enchanted by the sounds and the sight of him, couldn't help himself. He brought their mouths together, desperate to taste, to feel the little sighs he let out. John responded through his haze and they kissed without much finesse, more a slick slide of lips and open mouths than anything else. It was _wonderful._

Eventually they parted and Sherlock dropped his head on John's chest, careful to avoid their mixed semen on his belly.

“We're a mess.”

He only hummed at the still breathless statement. When it became clear that he wasn't moving a muscle John huffed out a laugh, brushing his finger over his cheek in a gentle caress.

“Don't fall asleep,” he said. “We need to get cleaned up first.”

“Won't,” Sherlock muttered into his skin. As if he'd waste even a single second of this precious moment on sleep.

He rolled off John's chest and reached for his pants on the floor. Getting hold of them took just enough effort to let his sleepiness evaporate, leaving him with warm and sated contentment. He cleaned John as well as he could before letting the pants fall over the side of the bed again. Then he reached for the blanket, pulling it half over them before settling back on John's chest.

His eyes fell shut when John's hands returned to his hair, stroking softly, and for a while he just listened to the sound of John's heart beating beneath his ear, with John's arm around him in a way that made him feel protected, safe.

Sherlock opened his eyes when John spoke a while later, the vibrations of his voice resonating down his spine.

“You know what we need?” he asked, sounding deep in thought. “We need a song.”

Sherlock craned his head to look at him. “Whatever for?”

John laughed, the sound causing Sherlock to tighten his grip on him. “It's just something you do. When you meet a special someone you associate a song with them, maybe because it played on your first date, or because you listened to it after you shagged, and then every time it comes on, you think of them.”

“Is it.” Sherlock hummed in consideration. “Are there any requirements for the song?”

“Not really,” John said, giving him a fond smile. His hand came up to brush a loose strand out of his forehead, then slipped into his hair. “Some people want it to be romantic, but if something else fits, then it's something else.”

His tongue brushed over his lower lip as he looked at Sherlock, and Sherlock watched the movement rather than thinking of a song.

John's brows drew together, his eyes all serious as he pondered the question.

“I think I have one,” he said after a while, leaning in to put a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. Then he wriggled his arm free from under Sherlock's grip, fetching his phone before returning to his side.

His tongue darted out as he typed – agonisingly slow, Sherlock thought with a jab of fondness in his chest. He tried to peek at the screen, but John tilted the phone away from him.

“You're ridiculous,” Sherlock huffed. “I'm going to hear it in a minute anyway. Or in ten, considering the speed at which you're typing.”

John elbowed him. Then he seemed to find what he'd been searching for. He hit play, watching Sherlock expectantly as the music started.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “Seriously, John?”

“You know it, don't you? It's Africa. You _must_ know it, Toto is a classic.”

“Of course I know it. Whatever made you think that this was a good choice?”

John held up his finger, signalling him to wait. They listened in silence, and John raised an eyebrow when the chorus began.

 _It's gonna take a lot to drag me away from you_ , the words sounded into the silence between them. And Sherlock understood.

He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. John's arms tightened around him, his hands rubbing his back soothingly. They listened to the rest of the song, neither of them speaking a word until the music faded.

“This is how I feel about you,” John said when the recording ended. “That's the truth. I never wanted to leave you in the first place, and I don't want to do it again. It _is_ going to take a lot to drag me away from you, Sherlock, I mean it. I failed you last time. We'll figure it out this time. That's a promise.”

Sherlock swallowed around the thickness in his throat. "When we were in Estonia, you said that we couldn't be together for several reasons. Your marriage just being one of them."

"Yes."

"I take it that hasn't changed?"

“No.”

“And yet you're willing to- do this?”

John sucked in his lip as he thought. “You know,” he started, “I told you before that I couldn't give you what you deserve. And I still can't, and I bloody hate that. I really do. But I also told you that I can't stay away from you. I'm getting the feeling that neither of us is doing very well at being apart, and neither of us is willing to give this up. Even if it's a weak compromise, compared to the real thing."

Sherlock considered this. “It doesn't feel weak to me,” he told him.

John's eyes fell on his. He smiled and shook his head. “To me neither.”

Sherlock, for lack of a better response, leaned in and kissed him. He trusted that it would convey how much this mattered to him, how grateful he was to have it. John cupped his cheek and kissed him back, brushing his cheek with a gentle thumb, and Sherlock knew that he understood.

“So you see,” he continued, “the song is fitting. Plus, we always meet doing work away from home. It's not Africa, but it's close enough.”

Sherlock stayed quiet for a while, breathing in the scent of John's hair. “I concede it,” he mumbled against his temple. “But I rather had something like this in mind.”

He took the phone from his chest, finding what he'd been looking for quickly. He selected the right recording, waiting for the orchestra to start.

John lifted his head to look at him. “A classical piece?”

“Symphony No. 2, 3rd movement by Rachmaninov. It's one of the most romantic pieces of music I know.”

John made a face. “It's _classical._ ”

“Just listen.”

“How long is it?”

“15 minutes. Be quiet.”

John sighed, but he curled up against Sherlock's chest and listened. His eyelids fluttered shut as Sherlock began to draw circles on his back in time with the music, and Sherlock could tell when he allowed himself to get immersed in the sound. His breath evened out, and when the music finally let go he took a deep breath, listening breathlessly until the last notes died away. By the time the piece ended, he had melted against Sherlock's body.

“It's not so bad,” he mumbled into his chest, placing a kiss where his lips rested, then another one for good measure.

Sherlock dropped the phone and rearranged them until he was on his side, facing John.

“Is this how it normally is?” he asked into the quiet, searching John's eyes through his lashes. He didn't clarify, but John seemed to know what he meant anyway.

“No,” he said, shifting so close that their heads were resting right next to each other. His breath was warm on his face. “This is how it is when you're very, very lucky.”

He closed the distance between them and Sherlock shut his eyes as he brought them even closer together.

It only occurred to him later on that they'd never decided on a song. Well, he thought, unable to keep the ridiculous smile off his face, normal people had one song. But they weren't normal people. They were John and Sherlock, and nothing about them was ordinary, so who was to say that they couldn't have two?

* * *

John's flat was a fifteen minute tube ride away from Sherlock's. He'd left him the address the day before, telling him to drop by when he was done with his errands.

Sherlock rang the bell, feeling strangely nervous. The door opened with a buzz just a short moment later, and he only had to go up a short flight of stairs before he saw John peeking out of a door. His face lit up when he saw him, which, in return, made Sherlock smile.

“Hello,” John said, grinning up at him. “I thought you were a deliveryman.”

“Just me, I'm afraid,” Sherlock remarked, quirking an eyebrow.

John stretched up to kiss him in response. “Much better,” he said as he drew back, stepping aside. “I wouldn't do _that_ with the deliveryman. Come on in, then.”

Sherlock went inside, following John through the small hall to the living room. His gaze moved over the furniture, cataloguing what he saw.

This was where John lived with Mary. This was their space. This was the place he went home to each night, the place Mary would come home to once she returned. Though the flat didn't show it, they had memories here.

The furnishing was only conspicuous in its scantiness. There were few personal items and even fewer indications of a married couple living here. The realisation made Sherlock feel better, though the odd vibe the flat was giving him didn't disappear entirely.

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?”

It was rather clear that he wasn't, but he didn't want to scare John away with his disregard of social etiquette so soon after getting him back.

John, however, only raised an eyebrow. “I told you to come by, didn't I?”

“Well, yes. I wasn't sure if now was a good time, though, so I just-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted him, a soft smile on his face. Like Sherlock had just done something particularly endearing. Sherlock closed his mouth. “You can come over whenever you like. Anytime. Consider this your official invitation.”

Sherlock blinked, then nodded. He didn't intend to take John up on that offer, as he wasn't keen on constantly being reminded of Mary's presence in his life. Nevertheless, the invitation was strangely touching. Like this could be their space instead of John and Mary's. Like they could have a space at all, a place just for the two of them.

“Alright. You can come over anytime as well, if you like.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I thought we might want to go out tonight.”

“Oh? Anything special in mind?”

“I could show you my favourite restaurant so far. Or you could show me yours, if you have one. You've been here longer than me, after all.”

John hummed. “Dinner. Sounds nice. I know a good place, I'd like to take you there.”

Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile. “Good. I'd like for you to take me there.”

John glanced at the clock. “It's a bit early for dinner yet, though.”

“I don't mind.” Sherlock shrugged. “You know I don't eat regularly anyway.”

“Yeah,” John said, narrowing his eyes at him. “I do.”

“We could take a walk first, if you're not hungry yet.”

“Alright.” John got up, grabbing his keys from the bureau before slipping into his jacket. “Let's see where it takes us.”

They ended up walking to the Tempodrom first, a famous event hall, before deciding that it was late enough to take the tube to the restaurant.

The place John had in mind was a twenty minute ride away, but Sherlock deemed the journey worth it as he set foot into it. The restaurant was located on the top floor of a fancy hotel, allowing a clear view over the western part of the city through the wide windows. The modern interior design was completed by several plants, bringing a touch of green into the room without stuffing it.

Sherlock felt John's eyes on his face as he took the location in. He turned to look at him.

“Alright?”

“Of course. I trust your judgement.” He glanced around. “It does look nice.”

“I thought so,” John agreed, smiling to himself. “You want to sit outside? Might get a little cool later, though.”

Sherlock wasn't opposed, but he decided on comfort over view. They chose a small table at the windows, granting them a rather pleasant view of the rooftops and skyscrapers, as well as a park to their left.

“Not quite London, but it feels a bit more like it, from up here,” John remarked when they'd sat down. His eyes rested on the city below them, taking in the cars and concrete and rooftops.

Sherlock glanced at him. “You haven't been there in a long time.”

“Yeah.” His voice sounded far away. “Not in ages.”

“Do you miss it?”

The smile John gave him was tinged with sadness. “All the time, yeah. Constantly. Back when I joined the army I used to think that I couldn't live anywhere else, not for long. But here I am, haven't been in London for years. Still, would be nice to get back there at one point. For good.”

His eyes drifted to the view behind Sherlock, drawn in by the picture of the city that was so unlike their home.

Sherlock could see it. John back in London, amidst the people, the red busses, the busy streets and familiar sights. The look in his eyes made it clear how much he wanted to come back to all that.

Sherlock wanted to ask why he didn't, if he missed it so much. He was an army doctor, more than qualified to work at any clinic he wanted.

Was it Mary? It had to be her influence that kept him from returning home. He didn't quite understand why he didn't move back on his own, since she seemed to constantly be away doing god knew what anyway. But he figured that it wasn't his place to ask, and he had no desire to spoil the evening by bringing her up.

His thoughts were interrupted by a young waitress bringing them their menus.

“ _Danke_.”

He opened the card to find a definition of the word _share_. John, who saw him quirking an eyebrow, explained, “It's common for two or more people that come here to order a 'Balagan style ramble'. You get all sorts of dishes, a little bit of everything, and you're supposed to share it.” He hesitated. “I think it's a nice way to get a taste of everything. But we don't have to do it, if you'd rather not.”

Sherlock briefly scanned the menu, then looked up. “Sharing sounds good,” he said, and John smiled.

“Great. Do you know what you wanna drink? We could get some wine, if you're in the mood?”

Sherlock hummed. “Maybe later.” He wanted to keep a clear head for now, to appreciate every detail of their dinner.

Though the circumstances were different now, sitting across from John again reminded him of the Italian restaurant they'd gone to, before. It was a fond memory, and now, unexpectedly finding himself in a similar situation, it lost the sharp edges that had bored into his mind every time he'd remembered it over the past weeks.

“Alright. I'll take a beer, then. Pils, I think.”

Sherlock nodded. “I believe it's mandatory to drink beer when you're in Germany,” he said, waving at the waitress. John chuckled.

“It's not my first one, trust me.”

Sherlock reluctantly took his eyes from the charming laughter lines on his face, placing their order in fluent, if somewhat accented German. He saw John gaping at him from the corner of his eyes. His lips twitched at the sight.

“ _Und ein Fürstenberg Pils für ihn, bitte,_ ” he finished. The waitress, evidently pleased about his German skills, took the menus with a grin and left.

“Why the hell do you- never mind, of course you know how to speak German.” John shook his head.

“I learned it at school,” Sherlock explained with a smile. “Well, to an extent. I was taught this level of fluidity at home.”

“Your parents?”

“Nope. Mycroft.”

John gave an understanding nod. “Right. That fits, from what I've heard about him.”

“Loath as I am to admit it, I learned most of what I know from him. Or I used to, up to a certain point. Then we just started arguing all the time.”

“Yeah, that happened to me and Harry too. That's the thing with older siblings, isn't it? They have that effect on you. At least while you're a kid.”

“They do,” Sherlock confirmed, shaking his head slightly as unbidden memories of him and Mycroft in their earliest years came to him. The look that came into John's eyes told him that he remembered the same with Harry.

To his own surprise Sherlock itched to ask what he was thinking about, wanted to be let in on the memory and dissect it with him, together. But he wasn't sure if that would be appreciated, and so he stayed silent.

Their conversation came to a halt anyway when their food arrived, and then turned to the dishes before them. John explained which ones he'd already tried, pushing several plates into Sherlock's direction.

“Try these first, then work your way through to this,” he instructed, pointing at something called _Muhammara_ , curry humus and falafel in that order.

They began to eat. Sherlock soon realised that John hadn't promised too much. The food was delicious, cooked and seasoned expertly. The variety was spectacular and he found himself in favour of most dishes, something that didn't occur all that often.

As they ate, Sherlock alternated between watching John and watching the city go dark around them. Admittedly, John won out most of the time. When Sherlock looked outside again at one point, a sea of lights blinked back.

More food kept coming each time they finished something, the main course following the empty plates before dessert was served. Sherlock, already stuffed with Korean Fried Chicken Salad, sweet potato chips, _Hamshuka_ , caramelised eggplants and other delicious treats, put a hand on his stomach when he saw the full plates.

“ _Knafeh_ ,” John said, pointing at a dish that looked like several gold-brown strings woven together. “It's with cheese, but don't be fooled. It's sweet, and absolutely delicious. You've got to try it, if you can still fit something in your stomach.”

“ _Knafeh?_ ” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “I know that. I've had it at a Turkish restaurant once, back home, though it was called _Künefe_ there.”

“Don't tell me you speak Turkish, too,” John joked, a glint in his eyes.

“Don't be ridiculous, John,” Sherlock remarked, smirking at him. “I'm not nearly as fluent as I am in German.”

John snorted. His eyes lingered on Sherlock's as he shook his head in amusement, and Sherlock gave him a genuine smile. “Anyway,” he then changed the topic, “I do think you're right. I definitely need to have some of that.”

John pushed the plate towards him. “Be my guest.”

By the time they were done, save for a puddle of melted ice cream that they just hadn't gotten to in time, they both leaned back in their chairs, content and full to the brim.

“That was a very good choice,” Sherlock commended him. John just smiled.

“I'm glad. It was a good idea, going out for dinner. I had a great time with you.”

 _With you_. The words made a warm shiver run down Sherlock's spine. “I still do,” he said, and John's smile grew wider.

They got the bill, settling on splitting it evenly after a small discussion over who was going to pay.

“You really shouldn't,” Sherlock had said, narrowing his eyes at John's well-worn jumper.

“I like my clothes, thank you, and I won't let you pay the whole bill, even if it's on Mycroft. Trust me. I _have_ money. More than enough.”

Instead of asking where he'd possibly gotten it, with the sporadic work he did, Sherlock had crossed his arms. “We'll split, then,” he'd said, and John had rolled his eyes, but smiled.

“Stubborn as a mule,” he'd muttered, and so they'd each paid their share.

The cool night air hit them when they stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor. They were quiet for a moment as John zipped up his jacket, Sherlock watching him from the side.

“I don't want to go home yet,” Sherlock said into the silence, and John turned his head to smile up at him.

“Neither do I,” he agreed. He held out a hand. “Let's take a walk. We can catch a glimpse of Berlin's night life.”

Sherlock only blinked at his hand for a second before taking it. They started walking with their fingers locked, and Sherlock swore that the lights of the streets seemed brighter for it.

The streets they passed were more alive than by day. Sherlock had always loved that about London, and he appreciated the atmosphere as they strolled through the streets. They were quiet save for a few offhand remarks as they pointed out sights around them, until John eventually asked, “You like this, don't you?”

Sherlock turned to look at him at the question. “I do. Don't you?”

“Of course. It's just, it's so obvious that this is your kind of thing. Busy streets, many people. I can't really imagine you anywhere quiet and, and _boring,_ is all.”

“No.” Sherlock chuckled. “My mind rebels at stagnation. I need all the input big cities can offer.”

They passed a night club that played music loud enough for them to hear outside. Sherlock's head turned to the source automatically, his eyes moving over the alley next to the club where two men stood next to each other, speaking in low voices.

“All those people, all that stimulus...”

Sherlock stilled. John’s hand felt heavy in his own and he dropped it, flexing his fingers repeatedly. One of the men in the alley turned and left. The one staying behind was hidden by the shadows, merely a silhouette in his dark hoodie and worn jeans.

And Sherlock knew exactly what he had in his pocket.

The surge of desire felt like a shock pulsing through him, punching the air out of his lungs. He knew that, rationally, there was no way to approach the man without John realising what he was doing, but god, how he _wanted_ to.

“We need to leave,” he said, not moving from the spot. His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears, and he saw John giving him a concerned look from the corner of his eye.

“What's wrong?” he asked, reaching out to touch his elbow. “Sherlock?”

The feeling of his hand on his body snapped Sherlock out of his thoughts. He swallowed, jerking his head towards the alley.

To his credit, John only took a moment to understand what was happening.

“Oh. Come on, then,” he said, and Sherlock clung to the steadiness of his voice like a lifeline. “Let's go.”

John's hand came up to his back, more touching than guiding, but Sherlock was glad for the contact. They turned around, going into another direction with a decisiveness Sherlock didn't feel within himself.

John was quiet as they walked on, with no specific goal other than far, _far_ away, and Sherlock found himself wishing for a distraction soon. His mind inevitably dissected the scenario over and over, sending waves of desperation and frustration through him until he felt that he was going mad. Desperate to fill his head with other things he focused on John, listening for the sound of his regular breath.

He remembered what he'd thought during dinner, when John had talked about older siblings. He'd been unsure whether he should bring it up then, but now, in desperate need of something to distract his mind, he found that he didn't really care about the appropriateness of the topic.

“How's Harry?” he asked, breaking the silence. “You haven't said.”

To his surprise, John's lips turned up in a half-smile. “Not bad, actually.”

“Really?” Sherlock squinted as he remembered what he'd told him about her the last time she'd come up. It hadn't sounded at all like she'd been getting better. “What happened?”

“I'm not sure,” John said, shrugging. “I think she's met someone. She hasn't told me officially, but I noticed when she talked about her. That girl she'd met at work, she said, Clara. She sounded so alive all of a sudden, like I haven't heard her in ages. I don't think they're seeing each other yet, but I can tell that she wants to. Keeps mentioning her, here and there. Maybe it's motivating her to really try, and keep trying.”

“So you've been talking to her more?”

“Yes. That's another thing, she's been calling... semi-regularly, lately. That never happens when she's in one of her moods. She knows I can tell.” He pulled his shoulders up. “It's still tricky, talking to her, and she's nowhere near out of the woods, but I think it's a start. It's better than nothing, at any rate. Better than it used to be. We're trying to stay in touch again, more or less. I think it's worth giving it a try.”

“I think you should do that,” Sherlock agreed.

John raised an eyebrow at him from the side. “You do?”

“Yes. It seems to make you happy, what better reason is there?”

Sherlock didn't say that he would always encourage him to do what made him happy because, at one point along the way, John Watson's happiness had become Sherlock's, too.

John hummed, nodding to himself. “I think you're probably right.”

They continued walking in silence, but Sherlock was less agitated now, and so it didn't bother him as much. Removing himself from the situation was vital, providing a distraction came next. John was taking care of both.

“You're still clean,” John ripped him from his thoughts after a while, blinking up at him. “You said, yesterday.”

Sherlock flushed as he remembered the context of the declaration, but nodded. “Since before we met.”

Weeks and weeks of fighting, of coming out on top each time. He'd be damned if he gave all that up for one high now.

He also knew that John wouldn't let him, at any rate.

John halted when they passed a supermarket. Sherlock stopped as well. “Do you need anything?”

“No.” He glanced at Sherlock from the side, biting his lip. “How do you feel about getting a drink?”

Ten minutes later, they exited the shop with a small bottle of scotch and a package of _Prinzenrolle_.

“Classy,” Sherlock commented. John just smiled.

“Needs must, Sherlock,” he said, then waved the bottle. “Come on, the Landwehr Canal is that way. It'll be nice.”

They opened the bottle as they walked, each taking a few sips until the water appeared in sight. There weren't many people around, few enough not to disturb their togetherness.

They settled down on a patch of grass, reaching the bottle back and forth between them every now and then while they shared the biscuits.

“Haven't done this since Afghanistan,” John remarked at one point, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Was that a regular thing?”

“Not really. We did it... sometimes. When we'd lost someone. When we were missing home, or our loved ones. The bottle was usually reserved for that sort of thing.”

“Was it hard? Leaving everyone behind when you joined the army?”

John pursed his lips as he thought, his eyes cast on the water. “Not that hard, joining,” he mused. “It was harder missing them when I was already gone. I found some of the best mates I've ever had in Afghanistan, but leaving the ones at home behind was rough. It puts a strain on your relationships, that kind of decision.”

Sherlock nodded in concession.

“After a while you just learn to live with it, though,” John added quietly. “Missing people.”

Sherlock was silent as he handed John the bottle.

“My dog died when I was a child. Didn't take it well.”

John swallowed a sip. “That's rough."

Sherlock nodded slowly. “He was my only friend,” he continued, surprised by his loose tongue. “I didn't have many friends back then. I never did. Until recently, it seems.”

John gave him a brilliant smile. “You have me, now,” he said, reaching out to cover Sherlock's hand with his. “And Molly, remember? She liked you. And your brother, he loves you too.”

Sherlock grimaced. “Give me that bottle back,” he demanded, wiggling his free hand. “I need another drink.”

John laughed, a high, brilliant sound. He gave him the scotch.

The bottle wasn't that big, but the content was high-proof and Sherlock felt the effects acutely. John's face was equally flushed, his posture relaxed.

“You don't usually drink, do you?” he asked as he handed the bottle back, and Sherlock shook his head a little more vehemently than necessary. His curls bounced around his face, and John chuckled.

They didn't move until their behinds started to ache from the hard ground, then heaved themselves up to resume walking. With no specific goal in mind, they ended up on a bridge. Sherlock leaned on the railing, while John inspected the contents of the bottle.

“I think that's enough now,” he decided, setting it aside. “Before either of us gets really pissed.”

“I wouldn't like that,” Sherlock said, squinting at the water beneath them. “It's messy.”

“Yeah, you wouldn't,” John agreed. Sherlock, hearing the smile in his voice, turned to inspect him.

“Something funny?”

“Just endearing,” John said, smirking at him.

Sherlock huffed and thought about how, if they were in the confinement of his own flat, he'd be kissing him now. The urge was strong, but he fought it down, not knowing where John set the limit, and not willing to find out tonight. The evening had been too good to be spoiled by something like that.

He tore his eyes from John's profile, letting them slide over their surroundings.

“Is that the police?” he asked, squinting at two people in uniform a short distance away.

“Don't know.” John shrugged. “Doesn't matter, we haven't done anything illegal, have we?”

It was meant as a joke, but Sherlock frowned as he tried to think. “I don't remember if drinking around here is actually allowed,” he said, more annoyed by the fact that his memory failed him than the possibility of getting arrested. John blinked at him.

“Seriously?” His gaze darted to the two men, who were definitely approaching them now. He licked his lips, glancing back at Sherlock. “You in any shape to run?”

Sherlock only had time to raise his eyebrows in response before John turned on the spot and started running, and Sherlock had no choice but to follow.

They didn't look back to see if they were being chased. Sherlock was almost positive that they weren't.

They only stopped when Sherlock clutched his chest, gasping for air, and John finally fell behind. They walked on for a few seconds, then came to a halt at a barely lit corner.

“I can't breathe,” Sherlock declared, his huffs of laughter only making the lack of oxygen worse. “I'm completely out of breath.”

“I know.” John giggled through his panting. “Amazing, isn't it?”

Sherlock glanced at him, and when he saw the crinkles around John's eyes, the way his chest heaved as he got his breath back, he had to agree. The point was to _be_ out of breath. To feel alive, to do something ridiculous, to run and exist and be right here, and now, just so, just for the hell of it. He'd never done that before John, had never known how to, but it was easy now. It was the only reasonable thing.

“I have no idea where we are,” John remarked after a while, glancing around with his hands on his hips.

“I do,” Sherlock said, nodding his head to the right. “We need to go that way if we want to go home.”

John exhaled, nodding once. “Maybe we should,” he mused, though he didn't sound particularly happy about it.

“It _is_ late,” Sherlock replied, squinting at his phone to read the time. “Or early.”

“Come on, then” John said, elbowing his side. “I'll walk you home.”

“Will you stay with me after that?” Sherlock asked, and he could feel John's smile more than he saw it.

“I think I can do that,” he replied. Their shoulders bumped together playfully, and Sherlock smiled.

The walk to his flat took the better part of an hour, and the cool night air had cleared his head enough to let the effects of the alcohol grow to a minimum.

John went straight to the loo when they got inside. Sherlock dug out another toothbrush for John and laid out a baggy pair of pyjama trousers. Then he changed and got himself ready for bed, and John joined him a moment later.

He yawned as they slipped under the covers together, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him. They lay close to each other, feeling the warmth the other provided under their shared duvet. Neither of them was thinking about sex in that moment. They rested their heads on the pillow, gazing at each other for a beat before Sherlock leaned in, almost coyly, and pressed his lips to John's. The mix of alcohol and toothpaste was strange and foreign on his lips. He was surprised to find it pleasant.

The kiss stayed gentle, and when they parted, moving around until they were comfortable, their arms found their way around each other naturally.

“Had a great time,” John mumbled, his eyes already closed. Sherlock blinked at his face in the darkness of the room, the softness around his mouth, his dark lashes fanned out on his cheekbones.

There was an intimacy to this, sharing a bed in a non-sexual manner, that was entirely new to Sherlock. He'd shared a bed with Mycroft on holiday when they'd both been children, but that was so long ago that he barely remembered. And this was different, anyway. He'd never had someone like John in his life, someone that made something as ordinary as lying in bed together such an extraordinary experience.

“Me too,” he replied, his voice soft. “Good night, John.”

“Night,” John said through another yawn. Sherlock only managed to watch his features growing slack before he closed his eyes and let sleep take him as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the restaurant Sherlock and John go to is a real one, it's called NENI if you want to check their website for visuals!  
> \- Translations:  
> Danke = Thank you  
> Und ein Fürstenberg Pils für ihn, bitte = And a Fürstenberg Pils for him, please  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

If there ever had been a time for poetry it was as the sunlight hit John's face, relaxed in sleep, illuminating the lines carved into his skin as it broke on his multicoloured hair.

Sherlock had woken as the sun rose high in the sky. He'd taken a moment to appreciate the lack of dull thuds in his head as he stretched, feeling utterly satisfied by the heavenly movements. Then he turned onto his side, pushing a hand under his face as he looked at John.

He was still fast asleep, oblivious to the rising sun and the attentive eyes on his face.

Sherlock kept his breath even, studying John's features in the peaceful silence. He looked younger when he was asleep, like there were no worries weighing him down, no secrets keeping hold of him. It was both a sad and fascinating revelation, and Sherlock found himself unable to look away.

Eventually he had to get up to relieve his bladder. He slipped out of bed without a noise, trying not to disturb John's peaceful slumber. He brushed his teeth while he was up, then fetched two cups and filled the kettle with water before heading back to the bedroom.

John had turned to his side, but his breathing was still rhythmic. Sherlock slipped under the duvet again, getting as close to the warmth he provided as he dared.

John let out quiet sounds as he breathed. Sherlock thought they were the most endearing thing he'd ever heard. He put his hand beneath his pillow to prevent himself from reaching out and touching John's face, loath to cut this precious moment short.

It only took a few more minutes until John shifted again, and his eyelids fluttered open not long after. He blinked at Sherlock's face, apparently undisturbed by the fact that he was staring at him intently.

“Morning,” he rumbled, his voice creaking with disuse. Sherlock's lips curved into a smile.

“Morning,” he said. John rolled onto his back, letting out a deep noise as he stretched.

“Time is it?” he mumbled.

“Just after eight now.”

“Mmh. Too early. How long've you been up?”

“Just a little.”

John eyed him from the side.

“You can go back to sleep,” Sherlock said, nudging his leg with his knee.

“No,” John grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Need the loo.”

Sherlock disliked the thought of John leaving the bed, but nodded. He pushed himself up while John was gone, leaning on the headboard. When John returned a few minutes later – too long for just the loo and Sherlock had heard the water running for a good minute, so he'd brushed his teeth - he looked more awake. Going back to sleep was out of the question, then.

“Mmmh,” Sherlock made when John swung his leg over him, his arms coming up to engulf John's torso as he crawled closer. John blinked at his face, hovering near his mouth.

“Hi,” he said, his lips curving up. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“Hello.”

John leaned in to kiss him. It was short and sweet, leaving Sherlock dizzy with its gentleness.

“Do you have anything for breakfast?” John mumbled.

Sherlock huffed, then said, “If you kiss me like that again, I'm fairly certain I will let you eat my entire stock _and_ go out to buy more.”

John hummed, then leaned in again. His breath ghosted over Sherlock's mouth. “Dangerous,” he remarked, “letting me know of my power.”

And he brought their lips together in a kiss so devastatingly good that Sherlock abandoned all pretence and just let himself be kissed.

“You,” he panted when John drew back, “are a dangerous man, John Watson.”

John chuckled and kissed the tip of his nose. “Come on,” he prompted, holding out a hand as he sat back. “Breakfast. You're eating something, too.”

“Yes, Mother,” Sherlock said and rolled his eyes, but he let himself be pulled along willingly.

“The guys at the embassy,” John said when they were sitting over breakfast half an hour later. “I was gonna ask you about this, but I forgot. They mentioned that you were looking for someone to help you with the investigation?”

“Only if they'd found me a specific someone I could work with, but yes.” Sherlock's lips moved into a half-smile. “I like company when I go out.”

“Do you.” John hummed. “Well, since we've established that we get along well enough-” Sherlock huffed at the understatement- “and I'm practically free to do as I please all day long, I wouldn't be opposed to... keeping you company. If you'd have me, that is.”

“Of course I'll have you, don't be ridiculous.” Sherlock shook his head. “If you think I'm letting you out of my sight again, you'll have to reconsider this relationship.”

John regarded him for a long moment, a genuine, bright smile taking over his features. “I think I'm quite happy with how it is right now,” he said, and then leaned in for a kiss.

Sherlock hummed against his lips, chasing the touch when John tried to draw back. “Not done yet,” he mumbled, then pressed a series of quick pecks to his lips until John began to giggle.

“If it's always going to be like this now, I'm definitely not complaining,” he said.

“Good news for me,” Sherlock commented and kissed him again, just because.

* * *

It was on unspoken agreement that John accompanied Sherlock from the very next day on. Their reunion had occupied Sherlock thoroughly, but now he was ready to turn his attention to Moran again.

When John arrived in the late morning Sherlock was sitting over the file, scanning the transcripts of the accounts the witnesses had given.

“The kettle just boiled,” he said absently when John entered, then startled when his arms wrapped around him from behind. The cool air from the fresh morning still clung to his jacket.

“Hello to you, too,” John said, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. Sherlock dropped the papers. That wouldn't do.

He twisted in his chair until he was facing John, then took his face in his hands. “Hello,” he said after a thorough kiss. “There's hot water. Make yourself at home.”

John chuckled and pulled away from him to go about making tea. Then he joined him at the table.

“Alright,” he said, blowing on his cup. “Tell me what we've got.”

“As you'll have heard, I'm here to gather information on Sebastian Moran. Who he is, what he's doing, what his current location is, if possible.”

“Is there a reason you're operating from Berlin?” John asked, his brows raised. “Does he have some sort of connection to this place?”

“There are three people in Berlin that we know he has contacted, one of them being the latest report we have. Which is why we decided that Berlin was as good a place to start as any.” He paused. “Other than that, I assume it was Mycroft's meddling. He's always happy to show off that he knows something I don't.”

John looked startled. “You think your brother sent you here because he knew we would meet again?”

“He does tend to know a lot of things.”

“That's... wow. Huh. He must have a high opinion of me, then.”

Sherlock fixed him with his gaze. “That's one of the rare matters we agree on.”

John blinked, opening his mouth and closing it again. “You're impossible,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “Er. You were saying about Moran?”

“Right.” Sherlock set his shoulders. “I talked to each of the witnesses, got the story of their encounters straight from their mouths. None of them ever met him in person, obviously.”

“Got anything useful out of them?”

“Their accounts allowed me to get a somewhat clearer characterisation of him, but there's nothing concrete. Yet.”

John raised an eyebrow and so he continued, “I'm going to start working through the remaining witnesses now, gather as much information about Moran's personality and his way of working as I can. It'll keep us busy until we get new reports of him showing up somewhere.”

“You're gonna do that from here?” John asked with a frown. Sherlock nodded.

“I have access to secure channels, which I can use to video chat with witnesses in other countries.”

“Right.”

Sherlock gave him a look. “You're staying for that, obviously.”

John chuckled at that. "Alright."

“Mycroft is setting up a date for us right now,” Sherlock said, tapping his phone. “He'll let me know when we can go online. It might still be a few hours, though.”

“I see.” John smiled at him, leaning on his forearms. “And what do you plan on doing in the meantime?”

“Well,” Sherlock said, “since _someone_ insisted on having a huge breakfast yesterday-”

“It wasn't _huge_ -” John protested, but Sherlock talked right over him.

“And I'm all out of food, I actually need to do the shopping.”

His tone clearly conveyed his feelings on the matter. John laughed at the sight of his wrinkled nose.

“Well,” he replied, pushing himself up to hover near Sherlock's face, “since I'm clearly responsible for your dire situation, it's only fair that I accompany you. Would that make it better, by any chance?”

“Slightly,” Sherlock said. John giggled. He leaned in, brushing his lips against Sherlock's.

“And this?” he muttered, the movement of the words teasing Sherlock's lips. “Helping at all?”

Instead of replying, Sherlock cupped his face and kissed him properly.

“I'm definitely more inclined to do the shopping with an incentive like this,” he conceded when they parted. John smiled.

“Then I hereby promise you more where that came from, as soon as we get back home.”

 _Home._ John was still so close that Sherlock's head swam. He leaned in for another kiss, one that was less about being playful and more about bringing their lips together in a needy, reassuring slide.

They went to the nearest supermarket. John grabbed items here and there while Sherlock scowled at the selection, bickering with him over which brands to take. It was only after a curious glance from an elderly woman that Sherlock realised how much they behaved like an old married couple. They didn't even live together, and already they were being  _domestic._

Sherlock would have hated it, if he hadn't enjoyed himself so much.

“Do you have a preferred brand of tea?” he asked John, secretly revelling in the question and the implications it carried.

“I use the Mayfair one at home, but I like yours as well.”

Sherlock grabbed two boxes of Mayfair Earl Grey and moved on.

“ _Prinzenrolle?_ ”

“Please.”

“Germany does have a wider selection of sweets to offer, you know. We should try them as well.”

“Let's take a few more then, if you insist. Knowing you, they'll get eaten within a week anyway. Not that I'm complaining, as long as you're eating _something._..”

Sherlock huffed, but dropped a box of chocolate-covered Leibniz, Bahlsen waffle-roles, _Hanuta_ and Milka chocolate biscuits each into their basket.

“You should let me pay for at least part of that,” John remarked when they queued.

“Oh, please. Not again.”

John chuckled, but let it slide.

Leaving the shop, each of them carrying a bag, Sherlock had to admit that getting the groceries was much less tedious when John accompanied him. He might even let himself be persuaded to do the shopping more regularly, if he continued to come along.

A growling sound to his right ripped him from his thoughts. He glanced at John, who just shrugged. “Some of us do need to eat every few hours, you know.”

Sherlock hummed. “Can I interest you in a piece of cake, then?”

John snorted. “Don't tell me you know how to bake, too.”

“Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm talking about a cafe not far from the flat. It's nearly two, that's late enough for the typical coffee and cake tradition the people here maintain.”

“Well, you're not gonna hear me say no to cake,” John replied, and so it was settled.

They left the bags at the flat before making their way to the small cafe, a little too secluded to be popular amongst tourists. They chose a small table by the window, scanning the menu once they sat.

“It's probably an unwritten law that you have to eat Black Forest cake if you're in Germany,” John mused.

Sherlock nodded. “When in Rome...” He turned the menu around to point at a small picture. “You need to try this one as well. Shall we share?”

“Sure,” John agreed, squinting at the name beneath the picture. “ _Bienenstich?_ ” His pronunciation was abysmal. Sherlock couldn't help but smile. “What's that mean?”

“The literal translation is 'bee sting'. It has a vanilla pudding filling and a crunchy almond crust. Trust me, it's very good.”

John had raised his eyebrows at the name, but nodded. “Sounds great.”

Sherlock waved at the waitress, placing their order in German. “Coffee for you, too?” he asked, and when John nodded, added, “ _Und zwei Tassen Kaffee, bitte._ ”

The waitress had listened up when he'd spoken to John.

“ _Sie kommen aus England?_ ” she asked, and he nodded.

“London.”

She smiled, declaring that she'd noticed his accent, but wouldn't have guessed where he was from. Sherlock, usually striving to keep the amount of small talk he engaged in to a minimum, felt John's eyes on him with every word he said, and so he decided that a little indulgence meant no harm.

The waitress left after a short, not unpleasant chat, and Sherlock's eyes returned to John. He was watching him closely, licking his lips. Sherlock's eyes dropped to his mouth, following the movement of his tongue.

“Do you have any idea how hot that is? You, speaking like that in your bloody voice and that- that tone?”

“I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about,” Sherlock murmured, keeping his voice deliberately low. John giggled, lowering his gaze to the table.

“Stop it. We're in public.”

“Stop what?” Sherlock asked with all the innocence he could muster, and that sent them both into a giggling fit.

The waitress brought them their orders soon. Sherlock pulled one of the steaming cups towards him, setting the cream on the saucer aside. John took it to add to his cup after using up his own, and Sherlock pinched his sugar cube in return.

The cake was indeed superb, and Sherlock was glad to have suggested coming there, seeing how much John enjoyed it as well.

John closed his eyes as he licked the fork, making a positively orgasmic noise.

“I told you so,” Sherlock said smugly, his eyes resting on John's lips around the fork.

“That's amazing,” John sighed as he took another bite. “How's yours?”

Sherlock, who had abandoned his own piece in favour of watching John eat, returned his attention to his plate. “Very good,” he said, cutting his fork through the soft cake. He held it out, smirking when John quirked an eyebrow. “Go on,” he instructed, nodding once.

John huffed out a quiet laugh, then leaned in to eat the cake directly off the fork. He moaned around it, this time not closing his eyes, but locking them with Sherlock's instead.

“Very good, indeed,” he confirmed after he'd swallowed. “You were right. Good choice.”

“Only Mrs. Hudson makes better cake,” Sherlock said, having another bite himself to regain his composure.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“My landlady. A hopeless chatterbox, but quite useful when it comes to food.”

John snorted. “Charming. You like her, don't you?”

“I like her cake.”

“And her.”

“It's possible that I have formed a slight attachment to her. We met under trying circumstances. Bonding was only natural.”

“What happened?”

“Her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. She found my website, I answered her messages and was able to help.”

John's eyebrows rose to his hairline. “You stopped her husband from being executed?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock said, smiling at him. “I ensured it.”

They swapped their plates when half the pieces were missing and, after finishing their coffee, called for the waitress. Unable to resist, Sherlock engaged her in another small conversation as he paid, making it a point to speak as much German as he could fit into the talk. The look John gave him when they got up to leave spoke volumes.

Sherlock could sense his agitation all the way home, a buzzing presence by his side, and so it didn't come entirely as a surprise when he was backed up against the wall as soon as the door fell shut behind them.

“Finally,” John growled and crashed their mouths together. Sherlock only made a muffled sound, wrapping his arms around his neck as they kissed. Despite the prominent urgency, there was a gentleness to the kiss, a deep and profound layer of care that made Sherlock go weak in the knees.

“What did I do?” he got out when John moved over his jaw to caress his neck. He hissed when he licked over his pulse, just barely suppressing a moan.

“You were being brilliant, as usual,” John murmured before bringing his lips back to his skin. “You, speaking German with that waitress. I wanted to push you onto the table and have my way with you.”

 _Now there's a thought,_ Sherlock mused, blindly clutching at John's body.

“You make me sound quite impressive.”

“Consider me impressed.” He eased off his neck, returning his attention to his already flushed lips. “You're brilliant,” he said, pressing their mouths together. “God, how are you so- how the hell did I manage to find you?”

Sherlock moaned into his mouth in reply, and John responded by deepening the kiss until they were both panting. When the kissing became more of an uncoordinated drive to be closer, John's lips slid down his jaw again, now paying attention to the other side of his neck while his fingers played with Sherlock's buttons.

Sherlock's phone pinged. John paid it no mind, merrily continuing his attentive examination of the juncture of Sherlock's neck. Sherlock opened his eyes.

“John,” he mumbled, grabbing his biceps.

“Mmmh.”

“That was my phone.”

John drew back just long enough to mumble, “Leave it. Busy. Kissing you.”

“John,” Sherlock repeated, nearly a whine now that John was bringing his tongue into it. “As loath as I am to- ah, to bring my brother into this-” John stopped moving, looking up at him with a frown- “I'm pretty sure that was him, about the witness.”

John exhaled deeply. He brushed his nose over the sensitive spot on Sherlock's neck, leaving a trail of goose bumps before he stepped back.

“Your brother has impeccable timing,” he said dryly, pushing a hand into his hair.

“Don't I know it,” Sherlock muttered. He cleared his throat, letting his breath calm for a few seconds before he was in any state of mind to read the text.

“Ah,” he said when he'd taken his phone out. “John, hand me my laptop.”

“Where is it?”

“Bedroom.”

“You do realise you're closer to the bedroom than I am?”

“John,” Sherlock huffed with an air of impatience. John shook his head, but went to fetch the laptop.

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbled, typing away on it as soon as it had booted.

“Alright,” he announced a few minutes later, setting the laptop aside. “We've got about twenty minutes until the witness is online.”

John hummed. “I could think of a thing or two we could do in twenty minutes.”

“Yes. Making tea, for example.”

John snorted. “Never let it be said that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know how to set the mood.”

“I'm deliberately trying to ruin it, John. I need to focus. If we do what I want to do, we'll be occupied much longer than twenty minutes.”

John licked his lips as he looked at him. “You know,” he remarked, “I take it back. Better don't set the mood.” He cleared his throat. “Tea, you said?”

“Please.”

“You know what I keep wondering about?” John asked as he prepared the kettle.

"What?"

“How Molly's doing. She was nice. I wish I'd gotten to say goodbye to her.”

“Oh,” Sherlock said, waving his hand, “she's fine.”

John gave him a surprised look. “You've talked to her?”

“We exchange emails every now and then. She's not an unpleasant person to talk to, as far as our conversations go.”

“No, I suppose she isn't,” John said. “Tell her I said hi when you talk to her again, yeah?”

Sherlock nodded. He realised that he hadn't responded to her last email, that she didn't know yet that he'd met John again, and he made a mental note to write to her soon.

While John bustled around the kitchen Sherlock crossed his legs, sitting back on the sofa as he waited. With nothing else to do and the reminder of Molly from John, his thoughts inevitably wandered.

“When we first met in Tallinn, did you ever think we would get to where we are now?” he asked when John put down his tea in front of him.

If John was surprised by the sudden question, he didn't show it.

“No,” he replied, settling on the sofa as well. His hands curled around his cup. “I didn't.”

Sherlock looked at his tea. “Neither did I,” he said quietly.

“I'm glad we're here now,” John said after a moment, and Sherlock turned his head back to him.

“Do you feel bad about it?” he wanted to know, suddenly longing to understand. “The cheating?”

The word felt strange. Sherlock didn't think of what they had as something as shameful and condemnable as that. It felt nothing but right to him that they were together. They clicked. They _wanted_ to be together. If the circumstances were different they would be, in every sense of the word. And yet, like this, it was infidelity.

John's throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don't know how to answer this,” he gave back. Sherlock's chest suddenly felt too tight.

“I'm sorry.” He shifted in his spot. “That was- I shouldn't have asked.”

“It's not that.” John let out a frustrated breath. “I just honestly don't know how to give you an answer to that.”

Sherlock pursed his lips, lowering his gaze. “It's complicated?” he offered, and John nodded.

“See, on one hand it's this- this fact about me now. I'm a cheater. I'm the one who was unfaithful to his wife. I never wanted to be that, but I am. But I can't bring myself to regret it, either. And if- if things were different, I wouldn't have to cheat at all. I could be with you the way I want to, the way I feel I should be.” His brow knitted. He shook his head once. “That sounds like I'm making excuses for myself. I'm not.”

“I didn't think you were.” Sherlock bit his lip. There was a question at the tip of his tongue that he kept thinking about, one he hadn't dared to ask yet. But this was the most forthcoming John had been on the matter yet, and the worst that could happen was that he withdrew again. The answer was too important not to give it a try.

“I know you said it was complicated,” he began, pausing as he searched for the right phrasing. “Your marriage. I know there's something I'm not supposed to know, and I'm not trying to get you to tell me. I just want to understand.” He took a deep breath, forcing his eyes to remain on John's face. The hurt was evident in the set of his jaw, the crease on his forehead. “Is there any way at all that you can get out of that situation?”

John swallowed thickly, shaking his head.

“And I suppose you won't tell me why?”

“No,” John said. “But not because I don't want to, Sherlock. Because I can't.”

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath. “Right.”

He pushed his hand into his hair in an attempt to regain his composure. Their talk had left him strangely vulnerable, and though the outcome wasn't unexpected, it still worried him more than he wanted to let on.

He felt John's anxious gaze on him, the silence that spoke volumes, and he sighed. He hadn't wanted to worry him. Whatever it was he couldn't talk to Sherlock about, there seemed to be enough on his plate. He didn't need to worry about Sherlock's feelings on top of that.

“I don't know where that leaves us,” he said, turning to look at John. “And I don't know where we go from here. I just know that this, with you, is the best thing I have in my life. And I know it's making you happy as well, so I refuse to see it as something bad or even condemnable. I know _you,_ John. I trust you. You're a man of morals, and you have your reasons, even if you can't share them with me. It was an unfair question. It's not something I know how to answer, either. And it's not something I want you to think about when you're with me. Forgive me for asking.”

John's mouth was a tight line. He put down his cup in a slow, controlled movement. His lips pursed as he shook his head slightly.

“Sherlock,” he said, then broke off. Sherlock just looked at him, his brow knitted. John sniffed, and then he slid closer on the sofa. Instead of kissing him like Sherlock had expected, he wrapped his arms around him in a tight embrace.

Startled, Sherlock froze for a split second before he felt himself relaxing, melting into the touch. He moved closer as well, closing his arms around John's body. He could feel every breath John drew like this, each of them deep and deliberate. He dropped a hand to his back, rubbing what he hoped were soothing circles onto his jumper. John turned his face, breathing into Sherlock's neck.

He didn't draw back completely when they let go of each other, instead taking Sherlock's face in both hands and kissing him in a way he'd never kissed him before. It was sadness, and gratefulness, and deep, staggering affection, and Sherlock nearly whimpered into the kiss, struck by the intensity.

They stayed close when they parted, still feeling each other where they'd just been, and John shifted to press his lips to his once more before pulling back. Sherlock blinked several times as his heart pounded in his chest, overcome by the significance of what they'd just shared.

“Thank you,” John said, looking up through his lashes to catch his eyes. “For what you said. And don't apologise. You have every right to ask questions like that. Every right. And it's my fault that I can't answer them. That you need to ask them at all.”

Not knowing what to say, Sherlock just swallowed. John reached out, covering his hand on the sofa with his. Sherlock intertwined their fingers, revelling in the comfort the simple gesture offered. The past was complicated, and the future was anything but clear. But this, here and now, that was enough. For now, it was enough.

The moment was interrupted when Sherlock's laptop came to life, and he reluctantly allowed John to pull his hand away after a final squeeze. Sherlock reached for the laptop, typing something before tilting the screen at the right angle.

“Shall I just...” John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

“No. Stay.”

“Alright.” The warmth in his voice told Sherlock that he was smiling without having to look up to confirm his observation.

“Ready?” he asked instead, and John nodded. “I'll do most of the talking, but if you have something to say, don't hesitate. Your remarks can be quite illuminating sometimes.”

Sherlock clicked the button to start the video call, and within a few seconds they were presented with a man close to his sixties. Sherlock took the shabbiness of his jacket, the darkness of his room, and the scarcely furnished background in with a single glance.

“Mr. Orlow. Glad you could make it. I'm Sherlock Holmes, this is my partner John Watson.”

Partner. The word sent a tingle down his spine, leaving a trail of warmth that wouldn't quite evaporate. John next to him shifted. Sherlock glanced at his face in the corner of his screen; he'd noticed too.

“Good to meet you,” the man said, nodding once. His accent was heavy, but he made an effort to speak clearly. “I was told that you want to speak to me about Sebastian Moran?”

“Indeed. We're currently investigating him.”

“Have you found out anything yet? I won't believe that he is finally caught until I see it.”

“We're still looking into him. I believe there's a good chance that we'll get somewhere, but we need your help to do so.” Sherlock folded his hands together. “Mr. Orlow, according to the file Moran contacted you twice regarding two different matters.”

“That's right.”

“Twice?” John asked, frowning by his side. “Has he done that with anyone else?”

“No. Which is precisely why I want to find out what made him do it in this case.”

“There was a large time span between the two times,” Orlow said. “Almost three years. I didn't think I would hear from him again. I expected him to forget about me. Apparently he thought I was useful.”

“You worked for your government, didn't you?”

“Yes. I still had a minor position when he first contacted me. But I worked closely with a minister – you have the file on it, don't you?” Sherlock nodded. “Well, I had a certain insight into his meetings and plans. I don't know how Moran found out, I suppose a few people noticed, but he used me to get that information.”

“You accepted his offer, that first time.”

“I did.”

“Can you please describe in your own words what happened? Try to think of details you might have forgotten when you gave your official statement.”

“There isn't much to remember, I never saw his face. But I can tell you from the beginning.” His glasses had slid down his sharp nose from looking down at the screen, and he pushed them back before continuing.

“I received an email one afternoon. I was at work. I panicked, I thought I'd get fired if anyone found out, or worse. I deleted it without replying. But I kept getting more emails, three in total. After that third one I replied."

“What changed then?”

Orlow gave a wry smile. “He offered me more money. A big sum. I was in need of financial help at the time, so I told him that I wasn't opposed. He transferred part of the sum to me, telling me to follow his orders unless I wanted him to tell the police that I'd accepted money in exchange for information. I wasn't sure if he would actually go through with it, but I was scared. I didn't want to risk it. So I got him his information. It concerned the upcoming elections. You'll have more on it in your file, I suppose.”

“Yes. So you got the information, passed it on to him- how, exactly?”

“I sent it via email.”

“The address he contacted you with, was it hotmail?” John asked, and Orlow nodded.

“The trail led nowhere,” Sherlock said. “You received the rest of the payment?”

“Yes, and that was it. I heard nothing from him until three years later. Then I got another email.”

“What did he want?”

“Information, again. This time I didn't even have to spy on someone else to get it. It was my own work he wanted.” He huffed. “I suppose he thought I was an easy target, since I had done it before. But I'd been promoted in the meantime, Mr. Holmes. I didn't need his money anymore. I declined.”

“What happened then?”

“He tried again, told me I'd regret it if I didn't do as he told me. I didn't. Then he called the cops on me, because of the time I accepted his money. And that was the last I heard of him.”

Sherlock hummed. “Were there any changes you noticed between the first and second time? His writing style, his approach, anything?”

Orlow pursed his lips. “He seemed more confident, the second time. And angry when I refused him. The first time, when I wouldn't reply, he tried to persuade me, but the second time he was just pissed. I could tell.”

Sherlock nodded. Turning his head, he asked, “John? Any questions?”

John shook his head, and so he said, “Well, this has been enlightening. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Orlow.”

“You're welcome. Anything to get Moran caught. I hope you find him. I lost my job, got my punishment for what I did. Now he needs to get his.”

“We're working on it,” Sherlock assured him. “Thank you for your help. If we have any more questions, we'll let you know.”

He disconnected, shutting his laptop before sitting back on the sofa.

“Well,” John said from the side, reaching for his cup. “That wasn't very informative.”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock mumbled. He abruptly stood. John gave him a surprised look.

“What is it?”

“I need to go out. Come along, John!”

They returned about an hour later, dumping yarn, pinboards, pins and markers on the table.

“Here, I think,” Sherlock said, pointing at the blank wall in the living room. He shrugged out of his coat while John picked up the boards. It didn't take long until they'd set up the wall for Sherlock to use as he pleased.

“Perfect,” he mumbled, clasping his hands together. He turned around, stopping mid-motion when he saw John holding out a stack of paper to him.

“You're welcome,” he said with a smirk, and then watched as Sherlock filled the board.

“Right,” he remarked when Sherlock stepped back to look at his work. “On the left is everything you've already investigated, including the Chapman affair. On the right is what you have yet to look into. The middle contains information about him that's not definite... green is his personality, blue is his way of working, red are questions that are still open?”

“Very good,” Sherlock praised, earning himself a smile. “We'll continue questioning the remaining witnesses, but I doubt any of them can tell us something we don't already know. We've got a pretty clear image of his personality now. Or her personality, or theirs, it's no matter. Assuming it's a man, we know how he works, and most importantly, we know that he changed his way of working sometime in those three years between his approaches to Orlow.”

“So we'll just wait and see if any of the others can provide some insight on that?”

Sherlock nodded, folding his hands together before whirling around. “We need tea. Lots of tea. Coffee, too. Do you require food?”

“I'm not hungry, no.” John paused, giving him a once-over. “Actually, I'm terribly hungry. Starving. Should I order in or do you want me to cook?”

Sherlock just waved his hand, ignoring the obvious attempt at getting him to eat. “If you can find anything cookable in this kitchen, do as you please.”

John went about inspecting his cupboards. He seemed to actually find something, as he soon moved around the kitchen, presenting Sherlock with a plate of pasta half an hour later. The sauce included peas, next to a variety of things Sherlock neither recognised nor remembered having at home.

“Just try it,” John said, nudging a fork into his hand. Sherlock reluctantly obeyed, frowning at his plate as he chewed.

“What did you put in there? It's _good._ ”

John chuckled. “What, you can't deduce it? Then I won't tell you. I've got to keep _some_ of my secrets.”

There was a moment of silence as he realised what he'd said, but Sherlock refused to let it become awkward. “I hope you understand the level of trust I'm displaying here by letting you feed me unknown substances,” he remarked dryly, and John shook his head with a snort.

“Just eat your pasta,” he ordered, and Sherlock did. He even went for a second serving, earning himself an approving look and a kiss to the top of his head when John cleaned the table.

“You're not going to sleep tonight, are you?” John asked when he'd put away the dishes, stretching out on his chair.

“I need to think,” Sherlock told him, and he nodded.

“Right. If you need to think out loud, just wake me. Until then I'll go and have a nap.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said absently. He only realised later on, well into the night, that neither of them had even questioned John's staying here. Staying the night. In Sherlock's bed, like it was _theirs._

Sherlock got up to pad to the bedroom, mindful of the sound of his steps. John had left the door ajar. He pushed it open with a slight creak, looking at John's silhouette under the covers in the half-light. His chest was heaving slowly. Sherlock could see that he'd borrowed a shirt from him, his own clothes abandoned on the dresser.

Sherlock quietly turned around to get ready for bed in the bathroom. He switched off all the lights, then lifted the duvet to slip under the cover. John's breathing changed as he settled in by his side, and when Sherlock's cold toes pressed against his pyjama trousers, his eyes fluttered open.

“Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you,” Sherlock apologised, keeping his voice low.

“'S okay,” John slurred, wrapping an arm around him as he turned onto his side. “You alright?”

“Yes.” He hadn't gotten anywhere with the case, but he was alright. John made it alright. “Go back to sleep.”

“Kay. Night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock leaned in to peck his cheek, then settled in for the night, John's arm warm and safe around him. “Good night, John.”

And without either of them consciously pursuing it, a routine was born.

Every night when Sherlock went to bed John was already there, waiting for him. Sometimes he'd pull him along for a nap, sometimes he'd kiss him goodnight hours before Sherlock joined him, but he was always there. Everything else seemed illogical. Wrong. He woke up most nights when Sherlock got under the blanket, always pulling him close in what Sherlock suspected was a subconscious action, half-asleep and instinctive. It made his insides curl in the best way.

Whenever possible, they organised video calls with several more witnesses, adding details to the wall here and there. The picture of the person Moran was became clearer and clearer until it was almost tangible, and yet, the one piece of information that would lead them to a breakthrough on his motives remained absent.

Approximately six years ago, Sebastian Moran had made his first move. He was cunning, highly intelligent, careful beyond measure, and knew enough about human nature to manipulate whoever he needed into becoming his pawn in the big game he played. He had a definite narcissistic streak, leading him to keep his name despite the risk it bore. Pride played into it, too. An element of amusement as well, Sherlock suspected. Mockery. _Look at me. I'm everywhere, and you can't catch me. Can't touch me. Can't even get close._

Sherlock, determined to get more than just close, immersed himself so completely in the mystery that was Sebastian Moran that John often times was the only thing getting him back to earth.

The days blurred into each other. He hardly noticed the time passing until John said one day, “Alright, that's enough now, I think. This is getting out of hand.”

Sherlock dragged his eyes from the papers on the wall, briefly wondering if he'd missed an important part of the conversation again.

“What is?”

“This whole investigation. We're not even getting anywhere, and I haven't left this flat in three days. I don't think you've left it at all since last week. You barely talk about anything but this bloody Moran person anymore.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted. “Could it be,” he said, raising an eyebrow, “that someone is feeling a little neglected?”

“Someone should feel neglected, and it's you,” John retorted. “I know you think that you can survive on work and biscuits alone, but those bags under your eyes get bigger every day, and I'm a bloody doctor, so. We're going out tonight. Doctor's orders.”

Sherlock tried to fight the smile creeping up on him. “I suppose that I can't argue with that, Doctor,” he said, tilting his head up until John moved around the table, putting his lips on his.

“Mhh,” Sherlock hummed into the kiss, bringing his hands to John's nape to hold him in place when he attempted to draw back. John's lips quirked into a smile but he stayed where he was, giving his full attention to Sherlock's mouth until they were both short of air. John straightened, giving him an expectant look.

Sherlock sighed. “Fine,” he said, getting up as well. “Take me out, Doctor. Just let me take a shower first.”

The bar John chose was not even ten minutes away from the flat. Sherlock didn't know whether he'd picked it for proximity or because he'd been there before, but a quick glance told him that, as far as bars went, this one wasn't too bad. The interior was nice, if a little rustical, and it didn't seem like a place where a pub brawl would occur.

They both ordered a drink, whisky for John, a cocktail for Sherlock, and then settled in. Something as pedestrian as visiting a bar had never been high on Sherlock's list of favourite activities, but then again, he'd never had someone to go with. He found that the location soon faded to the background anyway as his focus narrowed on John.

Saying that he hadn't been paying attention to him over the last few days would be a blatant lie. Sherlock rarely took his eyes off him, in fact, all too determined to commit every moment spent with him to memory.

There had been kisses, looks, gentle brushes and the shared bed at night, but Sherlock realised with a start that they hadn't had sex in days. The wanting had been there, of course it had, but it had been pushed to the back of their minds amidst getting tested for STDs and the ongoing investigation. Looking at John now, handsome and relaxed and mere inches away, ignited a hunger in him that he could not push back any longer.

“You want chips, too?” John asked, ripping him from his thoughts, and Sherlock, only then feeling the hole in his stomach, nodded. They shared a plate, not talking much in between sips of their drinks and greasy chips, and Sherlock realised soon that this was exactly what he'd needed.

His mind cleared as it moved away from Moran and settled on John – _well-rested, relaxed by the alcohol and Sherlock's presence, attentive, on the brink of becoming aroused_ \- and Sherlock only noticed the tension that had been sitting in his shoulders as it left his body. Remarkable, that John had noticed when he himself hadn't. How was it that John knew what he needed better than Sherlock did?

“You are very smart, John Watson,” Sherlock declared as he put his almost empty glass down, smiling when John gave him a curious look.

“Don't know what I've done, but that's high praise, coming from you,” he said, and Sherlock leaned closer, sliding his hand over John's on the table. John turned his hand, curling around him in response.

The touch was electrifying. They'd stayed apart all evening, and all of Sherlock's dams seemed to break at the simple contact. He took a sharp breath when his insides were flooded with want, need, desperate desire and the urge to be intimate that was never quite fulfilled, no matter how close they got.

“I have nothing but high praise for you,” Sherlock murmured lowly, keeping his voice even, and John chuckled.

“If this is what alcohol does to you, I should take you to bars more often.”

“I'm completely sober,” Sherlock stated. It was mostly true, save for the slight tingle in his stomach and his heightened awareness of the room. He suspected that only one of those symptoms was related to the drink, anyway. But John laughed at his words, and because it was a lovely sound he joined in.

The laughter died in his throat when John took his glass, throwing his head back to expose his neck as he downed the rest of his whisky. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, and Sherlock was mesmerised by the indescribably compelling movement.

His eyes got caught on the sight of John's tongue darting out, wetting his lower lip as it moved over the sensitive skin. A quick glance upwards confirmed that John was also watching him, clearly taking his reaction in.

“Alright?” he asked lightly. Sherlock decided that it was time to change the rules. He stretched out his legs under the table, sliding his foot between John's legs.

“Perfectly fine,” he said, rubbing his ankle against John's. Sherlock was suddenly glad that they'd chosen to sit in a narrow corner. The simple movement was enough to send jolts of ecstasy through him.

He brought his other ankle into it, holding John's gaze as he brushed his leg from both sides. John's hand moved over the table, finding Sherlock's again, and Sherlock clasped them together, tracing the soft skin in a light touch. When he looked up, deliberately blinking through his lashes, John's lips were parted. Sherlock would have loved to kiss him. He very much wanted to kiss him.

Instead, he bit his lip, enjoying the way John's eyes snapped down to his mouth. He idly played with John's hand, stroking his skin with gentle brushes.

John was breathing heavily.

“You want another drink?” he asked. The rough undertone of his voice sent a delicate shiver down Sherlock's spine.

“I think I rather want you to take me home so we can go to bed,” Sherlock replied swiftly, and John nodded immediately.

“God, yes,” he said, licking his lips again. “Come on. Let's go.”

Sherlock didn't know if John had anticipated this outcome – hoped for it, maybe – but he was desperately grateful for the short way home.

This time it was John that found himself pushed up against the wall. Sherlock crowded him as soon as they got inside, breathing in his scent as he lowered his head, kissing along his jaw.

“Jesus,” John hissed, tilting his head to grant him better access while his hands roamed over Sherlock's chest, slipping under his heavy coat. “Take that off,” he muttered, and Sherlock wriggled out of the coat without stopping his explorations. He dropped it on the floor carelessly, moving his hands to John's shoulders to wrestle him out of his jacket as well.

John took a shuddering breath when he came up to his mouth, sucking on his lips obscenely before focusing on his tongue. His hands tightened on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock blindly gripped John's torso, his hands sliding to his waist in search of his buttons.

He stopped moving when John let out a wheezing sound, and it took him a moment to realise that it had been laughter. John was _laughing._

He drew back, looking at John in bemusement. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” John said, sucking his lips in in an attempt at keeping a straight face.

Sherlock stared at him in fascination. “Are you _ticklish?_ ”

“No,” John claimed, erupting in a new wave of laughter as Sherlock slipped his hands under his shirt, experimentally brushing his sides.

“How come we've been having sex for weeks and I never noticed that you're ticklish?” he asked, shaking his head in wonder.

“I'm not ticklish,” John protested, hanging his head as he laughed. “And I reckon you're- usually otherwise occupied-”

“You're full of mysteries, John Watson,” Sherlock said, completely smitten by the sight of him. Then he moved his hands again, and John was sent into another fit of laughter that Sherlock couldn't help but join in on.

The sounds were whirring in his body, running through his veins, and his arousal only heightened as they brushed against each other. He was fully erect by now, and John, standing as close to him as he did, definitely noticed.

“Is this how it is with you?” he asked between breathless laughter, his arms curling around Sherlock's waist. “You ignore your physical needs for days and then you practically blow up with it?”

“I don't see you complaining,” Sherlock murmured, lowering his head to press wet kisses to his jaw.

“I'm definitely not,” John assured him, canting his hips slightly to underline his words. Sherlock grunted when John's erection brushed his pelvis through entirely too many layers of clothing.

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom now,” he suggested, and Sherlock nodded decidedly.

They moved through the dark flat, clinging to each other even as they walked.

“Shoes,” Sherlock remembered, kicking his own off, and John followed suit, bending down to pull off his socks as well. He searched for the light switch of the bedroom while Sherlock fumbled with his shirt, and once the lights were on John gently batted his hands away to make quick work of getting rid of the clothing himself.

Sherlock's hands travelled lower before he'd even shed the shirt, palming his erection through his trousers. John hissed as he took a sharp breath, twisting his fingers into Sherlock's shirt.

“Off,” he pleaded, and Sherlock complied readily. He sought out John's lips while he undressed, the kiss presenting a minor obstacle, but he couldn't be bothered to care. All that mattered was John's mouth on his, kissing him so his knees felt weak.

His hands hovered between them for a moment, unable to decide between getting John's trousers off and taking care of his own. The decision was made for him when John unbuckled his belt, his warm hands brushing Sherlock's stomach in the process. He inhaled sharply, dragging his trousers and pants down in one go.

John stepped out of his own remaining clothes, immediately pressing up against Sherlock once they were both naked. Sherlock moaned at the feeling of his hot skin on his own, trying to remember what exactly it was that had kept him from doing this for days. It was insane. He must have been insane, because that moment he couldn't imagine going another _second_ without having John close.

His legs hit the bed as he walked backwards, and he lowered himself on the mattress, pulling John along. They both stilled for a moment, just drinking each other in.

Somewhere between shedding their clothes and finding each other's arms again, the air had changed. By the time Sherlock's back hit the mattress and John crawled over him, meeting his lips for another kiss, his heart was pounding with the heavy intimacy. John was everywhere around him, filling him with his scent and his warmth and his sounds, and it was more than glorious, it was _heavenly._  

And Sherlock wanted more, _needed_ more.

John went on just kissing him for a while, and Sherlock lost himself in the long, endless moment. Their breath was loud between them, somehow only heightening the intimacy with the rustling of the sheets and their bodies brushing against each other.

Sherlock licked along the seam of John's lips, tasting him, feeling the warmth and texture of his mouth. His hands, unable to remain still, moved from his chest to his shoulders, over his arms, around his nape. John moaned when he slipped a hand into his hair, breaking the kiss long enough to catch his breath. He rested his forehead against Sherlock's, brushing his cheek with his thumb. Sherlock matched his breathing to his, wrapping his arms around him tightly as he drew back enough to look at him.

“What do you want?” John murmured, brushing the curls out of Sherlock's forehead so gently that his heart contracted. “Whatever it is, I'll give it to you.”

Sherlock didn't doubt it for a second. His head spun with all the things he wanted to do, everything he could think of that would bring them closer. None of it seemed enough, though. Except for one thought, one that had been lingering at the back of his mind, getting more prominent with each touch they shared.

There were countless things he wanted to try, but tonight, he knew that it had to be this one. That nothing else would satisfy the deep, wrecking yearning that sat like a hole in his chest.

“I need _you,_ ” he said honestly, lifting his head to kiss him. “I want to have you,” he mumbled against his lips, “inside me.”

John moaned, opening his mouth under his, and they kissed for a long, sweet moment. “Yes,” he muttered when they parted, blinking at his face with unadulterated tenderness. “If you're sure. Oh, christ. Yeah.”

“I'm sure,” Sherlock promised, nodding decidedly. “I want to do this with you, John. I need to feel you, like that.”

John swallowed thickly, his lips turning up in a smile, and Sherlock found himself mirroring the expression.

“You,” John declared, “are so beautiful, Sherlock. You're the most beautiful human being I've ever seen.” He leaned in to kiss his forehead. Sherlock's eyes fell shut at the tender gesture.

“John,” he said, unable to put into words what he was feeling, but John seemed to understand him anyway.

“I know,” he mumbled, his lips brushing his mouth once more. Then he drew back slightly, asking, “Condoms?”

Their test results hadn't come yet, and so Sherlock had prepared.

“Drawer,” he said. "Lube, too." His skin felt cold when John moved away to fetch what they needed, and he pulled him back on top of him as soon as he returned. John moved his free hand up his side in a comforting movement, taking the time to kiss him repeatedly, displaying no hurry. They were going to take this slow, savour every second.

John turned to his neck, pressing soft kisses to his pulse, leaving a prickling trail as his lips met Sherlock's skin time and time again. He kissed his chest, giving both of his nipples thorough attention for a few seconds before moving down, kissing his stomach and his bellybutton, his hipbones, the inside of his thigh. Sherlock quivered under his touch. When he came back up he met him for a soft kiss.

“How do you want me?” Sherlock asked, dragging his lips over his cheek, feeling the electrifying burn of the slight stubble on his skin.

“On your stomach while we prepare you?” John drew back to smile at him. “We can change positions later on.”

“Okay,” Sherlock agreed. He lifted his head for a final kiss, lingering on his lips for a second before rolling over. John handed him a pillow and he pushed it under his hips, inhaling sharply when the fabric brushed his erection. John settled between his legs. He leaned in to press a trail of kisses down his skin before lingering at the small of his back, making Sherlock shiver with anticipation when his breath brushed his arse.

“You don't have to be nervous,” John murmured, moving a gentle hand over his side. “I'll be careful. I'd never hurt you. I'd die before I'd hurt you. I'll go slow, I promise.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, twisting his fingers into the sheets. “I know you won't hurt me. I trust you.”

John let out a shuddering breath before he sat back. Sherlock heard the click of the bottle as he poured lube onto his hand, then tossed it aside before bringing his finger to Sherlock's arse.

“Cold,” he warned, and Sherlock braced himself for the sensation. It wasn't too bad. The coolness only heightened the spark flaring up inside him as John touched him at his most intimate part, gently circling the ring of muscles. He didn't move any further for so long that Sherlock almost grew impatient. He pushed his hips up to signal him that it was alright, that he could go on, and John took the hint, slowly pressing the tip of his finger in.

“Alright,” he murmured when Sherlock gasped at the feeling, gently stroking his side. “You're alright. I'll be careful.”

“It's not bad,” Sherlock said, closing his eyes when John's finger twisted inside him. “Go deeper,” he asked after a moment and John complied, slowly pushing all the way in to his last knuckle.

“Okay?” he asked. He moved his finger again when Sherlock nodded, pushing in and out until Sherlock was relaxed enough to welcome the touch.

“I'm ready,” Sherlock said when John showed no signs of moving on. “You can add another.”

“Alright,” John whispered, taking his finger out to add more lube. “Deep breaths,” he ordered gently, and Sherlock inhaled deeply, then breathed out as John pushed back in.

There was a slight burn as John reentered his body with two fingers, pushing deeper inch by inch, but he pressed his lips together and forced himself to take deep, deliberate breaths.

It wasn't quite painful, and the sensation soon subsided to make room for something that wasn't quite pleasure either, but it came close. Then John bent a finger to brush his prostate, and suddenly _everything_ was pleasure. Sherlock jerked at the unexpected sensation, ejecting a low moan.

“Yes,” he groaned, pushing back on John's fingers. “Again.”

John huffed out a silent laugh, obediently brushing his prostate again. Sherlock's eyes fell shut. He rubbed his erection on the pillow beneath his hips, desperate for some friction. “More,” he said, and this time John chuckled aloud.

“Bossy,” he remarked, keeping up his pace, gently spreading his fingers to open Sherlock further. “Who would have thought.”

Sherlock groaned into the pillow, accepting his fate. By the time his body had adjusted to the deeper stretch, allowing John to move inside him much more easily than before, his skin was covered in a thin layer of sweat.

“Can I add another?” John murmured, gazing up at him, and Sherlock nodded. The burn returned as John pushed inside, stretching him wider, but this time it merely mingled with the pleasure, not pushing it back. Sherlock was surprised to find that he enjoyed the duality, that the mix of the two sensations heightened his arousal. John's eyes were on his face, searching for any signs of discomfort, and Sherlock was glad that he didn't have to hide any.

“I'm alright,” he said. “Go on.”

John complied, twisting his fingers as he spread them, all the while caressing his skin with his other hand, and Sherlock had never felt so cared for and so impatient at the same time.

“John,” he gasped when he brushed his prostate again, urgently, desperately.

“Not yet, love,” John murmured, rubbing calming circles onto his glistening back, and Sherlock groaned into his pillow. John shifted, lowering his head to press a kiss to the nape of his neck. “Alright,” he soothed him, “you're alright.”

Sherlock was a quivering mess, but he appreciated the sentiment. _“John,”_ he breathed out again, and John hushed him, still brushing his prostate every so often, and Sherlock was so far gone that he was ready to beg. “Please,” he gasped, canting his hips to push John's fingers deeper.

“Just a little longer, love,” John murmured, his lips ghosting over his burning skin. “I want it to be good for you. I don't want you to be in pain. We're nearly there.”

Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh that may have been a whine as he continued his gentle preparation. The minutes blurred together as Sherlock melted under John's touch. His hand must have been cramping by now, a part of Sherlock's brain dimly noted, but he never said a word, never even slowed down.

His fingers were sliding in and out of him with ease now. Sherlock's body granted him access without resistance, was ready for more, yearning for it.

Sherlock sighed in gratefulness when he finally stopped moving, giving him a tender smile. “You ready?”

God, how ready he was. He nodded decidedly. John's smile widened. He withdrew his hand slowly, leaving Sherlock gasping with the emptiness, the cool air hitting the spot John had been caressing a moment ago.

“How do you want to do this?” John asked, and Sherlock rolled onto his back without having to think twice.

“I want to see you,” he declared, and John nodded, bending down to catch his lips in a deep kiss. Sherlock adjusted the pillow under his hips without breaking the touch, gripping his good shoulder tightly.

John drew back after a while, reaching for the condom and rolling it on with steady hands. He licked his lips, resting his forehead against Sherlock's.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice wavering as he looked at Sherlock's face, making sure that he was listening. “If it's too much. Please. If I hurt you in any way, you let me know.”

“I'll tell you,” Sherlock promised, reaching out to lace their fingers together. “But you won't.”

John leaned in, kissing him deeply. “Sherlock,” he breathed out, and Sherlock looked into his eyes, nodding once. “Bear down,” John instructed. Then he got into position, bringing his erection to Sherlock's entrance. Sherlock spread his legs wider.

“I'll go slow,” John promised once more, and Sherlock nodded again.

“I trust you,” he said, and then John pushed in.

He stopped as soon as the tip of his cock was inside, giving Sherlock time to adjust. The stretch was deeper still than three of John's fingers had been – which wasn't really surprising, John did have small hands, a small part of Sherlock's brain noted – and it bordered on uncomfortable, but Sherlock pushed back on it, breathing around the sensation instead of trying to fight it.

Thanks to John's lengthy preparation he adjusted to the foreign feeling after only a few breaths, nodding him to continue. John slid deeper inside slowly, leaving hardly any room for pain to build. Instead, the overwhelming feeling of having John _in_ him, feeling his movements at what felt like his very core flooded him, mingling with the pleasure, letting the stretch fade to the background.

They should have done this _so much sooner._

“John,” he gasped, canting his hips slightly, and John squeezed his hand.

“Okay,” he murmured, catching his lips in a passionate kiss that distracted Sherlock thoroughly from the burn. “You're alright. You're doing so well. God, you're incredible.”

“Deeper,” Sherlock asked, taking a deep breath, and John kissed him through it as he pushed in until he was buried inside him completely.

They both stilled as they adjusted to the feeling of being joint, panting into each other's mouth. Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist.

“You okay?” John asked, blinking at him through hazy eyes, a joyous smile unfolding on his lips.

And how could he be anything but, with the gentleness John met him with? The thorough preparation, the care he showed him with every movement of his body? The way he was looking down to him now, with their bodies finally connected?

Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, feeling almost giddy. “More than that,” he said, tilting his hips. “It doesn't hurt. I'm fine. Better than fine. You can move.”

John didn't comply right away, his chest heaving as he kept his eyes on him, and Sherlock opened his mouth to urge him again.

The words died on his lips when John made a shallow thrust, just barely rocking his hips, sending sparks of arousal through Sherlock.

He made an involuntary sound, distantly noting the way John licked his lips at the noise.

“More,” he said, his voice rough, and this time John complied, pushing into him again. Sherlock moaned, gripping John's waist. “God,” he got out, clutching at his skin.

“How does it feel?” John murmured, pressing soft kisses to his hair. Sherlock just shook his head mutely. He would die trying to describe the feeling spreading in his body. There weren't enough words in all the languages in the world to describe it, to even come close.

“Harder,” Sherlock pleaded, and John huffed out a laugh.

“A moment,” he said, taking deep breaths as he collected himself.

Sherlock pushed back on his cock, desperate for some friction, some movement, anything. John groaned.

“I'm serious, Sherlock. I'm too close right now. I don't want this to be over yet.”

The thought that John was this close to the edge because of what they were doing, because of him, made Sherlock flush in pleasure. Still, he had to agree. They both wouldn't take long, as keyed up as they were, but he wanted just a little longer. Just a little more of this indescribable, overwhelming feeling.

“I think I know how to help with that,” he murmured. He moved his hands to John's waist and, before he had the chance to follow his line of thoughts, started tickling his sides. John erupted into laughter, twitching away from his hands.

“Stop!” he snorted, and Sherlock couldn't help but join in as his body shook on top of him.

“Isn't that what you wanted?” he asked innocently, trying to keep a straight face. “I'm just attempting to distract you.”

“Nothing can distract me from the fact that I currently have my cock inside you, Sherlock,” John said dryly. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and John, realising too late that his words could be read as a challenge, wheezed with laughter as he dug his fingers into his sides. It was only when Sherlock's own stomach started to hurt that he eased off, allowing them both to catch their breath.

John regarded him wearily, his eyes crinkled with laughter lines. “You're a force to be reckoned with, Sherlock,” he remarked, followed by an undignified yelp when Sherlock promptly tickled him again. He bowed over with laughter, nearly collapsing on top of him, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him tightly, thinking that he'd never expected to be this happy in his life. That he'd never thought it to be possible, to be so swamped with the feeling that sat in his every cell now.

They clutched each other as they laughed, and the act made their bodies move together in such an arousing way that there soon wasn't much room for negotiation left. John picked up his rhythm again, going harder as Sherlock had requested, and Sherlock moaned loudly when he hit his prostate.

“Yes, like that,” he panted, sliding a hand into John's hair. “Oh god, yes, that's good, so good, John-”

He broke off with a deep moan, gripping his hips so tightly that he was sure to leave marks. “Please, please,” he let out, not knowing what he was asking for. John moaned along, changing his angle slightly, and Sherlock cried out when he brushed the spot with every thrust.

John wrapped a hand around him at the sound, stroking in time with his thrusts, steadily increasing the pleasure building in his guts. Sherlock's insides were on fire, but the heat wasn't burning him. It was comforting, warming every cell of his body. It was the only thing that mattered; it was everything.

He'd never expected it to be like this. To feel so full, not just physically, but emotionally as well. He was filled with what he felt for John, to the very last inch, taking him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

They'd had sex before, but this, this wasn't _sex_. It was _more_ , something much more profound and deep. This was _making love_.

The realisation punched all the air out of Sherlock's lungs.

Of course he'd felt it happening. Of course he had. He'd never put a name to it, had never dared to, but he could see it now, with perfect clarity. They were making love, because Sherlock was _in_ love, with John, who looked at him with so much adoration that Sherlock felt like he might burst from the sheer force of the emotion inside him.

God, Sherlock was _so_ in love with John.

His orgasm took him without warning. It was with those words on his mind that he spent himself between them, John's hand gently stroking him through it as his body shook with pleasure. He was distantly aware of crying out, of moaning John's name, repeating it like a mantra, but the waves drowned out everything that wasn't John inside him, John on top of him, John kissing him as he moaned into his mouth, _John._

“Oh, god,” John panted when awareness returned to Sherlock, his thrusts almost erratic. “You're so- beautiful when you come, ah, Sherlock-”

He cried out, his body going rigid as his orgasm took him. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, limbs heavy from his own climax, and pulled him down. John collapsed willingly, completely disregarding the mess on Sherlock's stomach as he pressed up against him. They caught their breaths when the aftershocks subsided, their lips finding each other in a heavy, slow slide.

Eventually John heaved himself up. He pulled out slowly, mindful of the possible oversensitivity, and rolled off the condom. He stretched slightly to drop it into the bin, then immediately returned to Sherlock's side, cradling him in his arms.

“That was absolutely incredible,” he breathed out, kissing his cheek and his jaw and his nose, and Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh, burying the words at the tip of his tongue in a desperate, deep kiss.

“It's okay,” John mumbled when they parted, stroking his cheek, his temple, his hair. “It's okay,” he repeated, though he looked as wrecked as Sherlock felt.

“John,” Sherlock whispered, his voice hoarse. He pulled him closer, feeling his hair tickle his cheek as he buried his face in Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock was in love with John. He had no idea what to do with that knowledge, or the feeling blooming in his chest, spreading in his every cell until he brimmed with it, constantly. He didn't know whether he should tell John, or if he already knew. He didn't know if saying it out loud would make things better or worse. He didn't know any of those things, and so he merely took John's face into his hands, pouring everything he didn't know how to say into the kiss.

It was all there could be. And for now, it would suffice.

* * *

Not much changed in the aftermath of Sherlock's mid-coital revelation. He didn't tell John about it, instead pouring the knowledge into every touch they shared. John always responded in kind, and Sherlock told himself that it was enough. That there couldn't be more, and that was alright.

He'd gotten more than he'd ever dared to dream, anyway. John practically lived with him these days, and Sherlock, who had grown quite accustomed to being on his own, _adored_ it.

They often went out at night, when the living room with the board on its wall became oppressive rather than stimulating, sitting in secluded pubs or wandering the by now familiar streets of Berlin. Other nights they stayed in, sharing the sofa as they watched TV, sharing a bed, sharing the dinner table and tea for breakfast and more kisses than Sherlock could keep count of.

They were hardly ever apart, and Sherlock suspected that they ought to drive each other up the walls by now – which they did, occasionally, nothing a deep snogging session or a thorough shag couldn't fix – but he rather found it reassuring. Comforting.

He knew it was a mirage, that the bubble they'd built around them would burst sooner or later, but how could he convince himself not to relish the here and now? How could he even attempt to keep any sort of distance, when John brought him a cup of tea every time he needed one without having to ask? When the sight of John's pyjamas on the bedroom floor made his heart skip a beat? When John hummed under his breath when he cooked, engaged him in the most stimulating conversation, understood his silence when he needed it, accepted each of his sulks and bad moods while knowing exactly how to coax him out of it? He couldn't. It was an impossibility, for Sherlock not to get lured in by their perfect illusion.

It was Ockham's razor, _lex parsimoniae._ Taking in all the details surrounding their arrangement would lead to an infinite number of problems and possibilities; ergo, simplicity was the solution for a satisfying result. Sherlock was in love with John, John could not stay away from him either; ergo, they spent all their time together for as long as they could.

Sherlock had written to Molly, telling her of this new development, for once exceeding her in the length of his email. After congratulating her on her new job at a London hospital, which, of course, he knew nothing about whatsoever, he told her about his and John's meeting, their investigation, and their current living arrangements. Her reply, as he'd expected, matched his enthusiasm on the matter. John, who had come up behind him after seeing him smile at his screen, had wrapped his arms around his chest and nuzzled his cheek.

“Tell her I said hi, will you? And that I'm happy about it, too.”

And Sherlock did.

The days passed and grew into weeks, soon making it a month that John only went to his own flat every few days to get a new stack of clothes or check the mail.

When he returned from his flat one afternoon, pressing a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head like he'd grown accustomed to doing, his eyes fell on his opened laptop.

“You done talking to Carell already, or just getting ready?”

Alan Carell's report was the earliest account of Moran reaching out that Sherlock knew of. He'd been keen on speaking with him, and Mycroft had finally managed to arrange a video call for them.

“Already done,” Sherlock said, leaning into the touch. “It was a short call, but quite insightful.”

“Did you find out anything useful?”

They'd been making slow progress on the topic of Moran's past, turning over every detail in search of new hints.

“Carell's quite sure that he was one of the first people Moran approached, if not _the_ first. He gave off an air of authority, but his methods were shoddy. I'm inclined to agree, which means that we can now safely assume that Sebastian Moran surfaced for the first time roughly six years ago.”

“And what happened six years ago?”

“That's what we need to find out.”

“How?”

Sherlock exhaled audibly. “No idea.”

John huffed out a breath. “Right.” He halted when his phone rang, glancing down at the sound. “Hold on.”

Sherlock watched him retrieve his phone from his pocket. His face hardened as he looked at the screen. “I'll be right back,” he said, turning around and marching out of the room before taking the call. Sherlock didn't need him to say who was on the other end of the line. It was evident in his behaviour, in the hard set of his jaw, his unwillingness to take the call in front of Sherlock.

He supposed that he ought to be surprised that it hadn't happened sooner.

Sherlock folded his hands beneath his chin, raising his gaze to the ceiling as he waited. He listened for John's voice in the other room, but he spoke too lowly for him to make out any words.

John returned a minute and forty-seven seconds later, his phone in his left hand, his right one clenching by his side.

“We have a problem.”

He didn't have to tell him. Sherlock could read it in the tension of his shoulders, knew it from the paleness of his cheeks, the clenching of his jaw. But he said it anyway, and with that one sentence, took the last bit of calm that he'd been clutching on from Sherlock.

“Mary is back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I honestly had no idea that having coffee and cake at 3pm is A German Thing until I read that in another fic that was set in Germany. Crazy.  
> \- I'm much more happy about a Bienenstich than a Black Forest cake myself, which is why I included it, but the reference to Sherlock and bees was intentional!  
> \- Translations:  
> Und zwei Tassen Kaffee, bitte = And two cups of coffee, please  
> Sie kommen aus England? = You're from England?


	9. Chapter 9

The ticking of the clock on the wall was abnormally loud in the quiet of the flat. Sherlock glared at it from where was sprawled out on the sofa, attempting to silence it by sheer force of will.

The clock kept ticking.

The flat was silent because John wasn't there, and Sherlock had foolishly grown accustomed to his presence. He hadn't seen John since the day before, when he'd left him with barely a word and a hasty kiss after breaking the news.

Sherlock hadn't even gotten to reciprocate.

His phone had stayed silent ever since he'd gone, with the exception of a message from Mycroft that Sherlock had ignored.

An entire day passed before John finally texted him. Sherlock was plucking the violin, scratching his bow over the strings in an attempt to voice his agitation, when his text alert sounded.

The message offered no insight, merely asking him to meet up the next day, and a new wave of frustration rose in Sherlock as he typed out a reply.

_[To: John]  
My flat? Come by whenever._

He didn't dare add anything more personal, lest Mary took John's phone and read the message. He scowled at his mobile, carelessly tossing it aside before pushing his fingers into his hair.

Already she was coming between them, a mere day after returning.

Sherlock wondered what John had told her about what he'd been up to, whether he'd mentioned Sherlock at all. He wondered if they'd slept together upon her arrival, whether John had kissed her, caressed her skin like he'd caressed Sherlock's, and he hated himself for even contemplating the idea. For knowing that it wasn't as unlikely as he wanted it to be.

It was Mary, objectively, who was being wronged in this affair. And yet Sherlock felt like _he_ was the one being cheated on.

It was hateful.

He briefly entertained the idea of things playing out that way. John and Mary, the happy couple, living their life in blissful union. Sherlock, the pathetic fling on the side, always jealous of his lover's missus, always yearning for something he could never have, always left on his own.

He shook his head at the ghastly image, repeating to himself what he knew to be facts: John did not want to be with Mary. He did not want to leave Sherlock behind. He did not see him as a fling.

Still, knowing something to be true and feeling it were two different things entirely.

His phone pinged with a reply, ripping him from his gloomy thoughts.

_[From: John]  
I'll be there as soon as I can._

Sherlock let out a deep breath. _Not a fling on the side,_ he told himself. John hated this situation as much as he did, if not more. And he only had to wait until tomorrow before he'd get to see him again. He'd gone weeks without seeing him before, not knowing if he'd ever get to again. He could make it until tomorrow.

* * *

He did make it, but only just. The sight of John as he opened the door hit Sherlock with decidedly too much force for the short time that they hadn't seen each other. _Absence makes the heart grow fonder, indeed._

He stood in the doorway for a moment, rendered frozen as he took him in. John looked tired. Not like he'd stayed up late, but in an emotional way. His cheeks were pale, the lines on his forehead deep. His hands were curled into fists where he'd stuffed them into his pockets.

“Hi,” he said. The smile he put on didn't quite reach his eyes.

Sherlock moved aside, letting him come in. “I missed you,” he told him when the door fell shut, stepping closer until their chests were aligned.

John sighed, and the sound betrayed the exhaustion Sherlock had already read in his face. “I missed you, too. I'm so sorry.”

“Don't be,” Sherlock said - because yes, he was agitated as well, but none of this was John's fault - and then he nudged John's chin up with his finger and swooped down to kiss him.

John seemed to melt into the touch, responding to the kiss immediately as his arms wound around Sherlock's torso. His lips parted and he caressed Sherlock's mouth with his tongue, gently begging entrance. He didn't have to ask for long.

Sherlock walked them backwards, pulling John down with him as he dropped on the sofa. They rearranged themselves a little once they parted, arms wrapped around each other, cherishing the small moment of peace that they both needed desperately. Sherlock pressed his nose to John's head and inhaled deeply before he spoke.

“How did it go?”

John didn't react for a beat. Then he drew back slightly, enough for Sherlock to see his face, but his eyes were cast on the ground.

“I wish she was still gone,” he said. It wasn't quite an answer to the question, but Sherlock understood. He reached out to close his hand around John's, squeezing once.

“Things were certainly easier when she was,” he agreed, and John let out a deep breath.

“It just came as such a surprise.” His frown deepened, and he raised his gaze to look at Sherlock. “And it shouldn't have. I kind of managed to block all that out, you know? Being here with you, it was so- it felt so right, I didn't even let myself think about it having to end at one point. It's my own fault.”

Sherlock's pulse quickened. “It doesn't have to end.” The uncertainty in his voice was treacherous.

John swallowed, his brow furrowed. “No, of course not. Not like that, I didn't mean- that.” He exhaled a frustrated breath. “I still want to see you. I couldn't give you up if I tried, Sherlock. It's just that this arrangement-” His eyes moved over the living room. “We can't continue like that. I need to go back to sleeping at home.”

Sherlock nodded. He'd expected as much, and there really was no way around it.

“As long as we still see each other,” he said, trying to convince himself that it would be enough.

John didn't look happy, but nodded once. “If you still want to,” he added quietly. Sherlock frowned.

“What do you mean?”

John's mouth was a tight line. “This isn't what you agreed to, Sherlock. I know that. Living together when Mary was away was one thing, but this, this is different. You'll get to see less of me, with her being around. We'll have to be careful. We'll have to _hide_. That's- you don't deserve that. I understand if that's not something you want to do, if it's too much of a hassle.”

Sherlock stared at him, his fingers twitching around John's as he tried to keep his breathing even. “Don't be ridiculous,” he snapped, shaking his head once. “I'm _serious_ about this, John. You're not a hobby I can just drop. You're not an inconvenience to me. Everything that's keeping us _apart_ is an inconvenience. If you think I'd give you up after everything we've shared, you're more of a fool than I ever imagined.”

John let out a slow breath, his hands clenching into fists. Sherlock rubbed his fingers soothingly. “I was hoping you'd say that,” John admitted, “and that probably makes me the most goddamn selfish prick in the world.”

“No. It makes you invested. Which is good, because I am, too, very much so, and I don't plan on stopping this anytime soon.”

John swallowed visibly, then nodded. “Right. Okay.”

There was a slight pause before he spoke again.

“I told her that you're here,” he continued, clearly forcing himself to get the words out, “in Berlin. She wanted to know what I'd been doing all this time, so I mentioned you. I figured she would have found out anyway, sooner or later.”

Sherlock regarded him carefully. “Okay.”

John pursed his lips, raising his gaze without quite looking at him. “She wants to meet you. Insists, rather.”

"Oh." She did? The confusion must have shown on his face because John still wouldn't meet his eyes. Sherlock's decision was already made. "Then I'll meet her."

John's eyes snapped up. “Sherlock, you don't have to do that,” he said, shaking his head once. “I just told you because I thought you should know. I don't expect that from you. On the contrary.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, tightening his hold on John's hand. “It would be a lot more suspicious if I refused, though. What reason would I have not to meet her? I'll just drop by sometime. Tomorrow, maybe. Stay for a cup of tea, then leave again. Easy as that.”

John's frown told him what he secretly thought himself, that there was nothing easy about it, but he held his gaze and, in the end, nodded slightly.

“If you're sure.”

“I am. It's fine.”

It wasn't, but Sherlock wouldn't let that stop him. 

They stayed on the sofa for a while, barely talking, just breathing in the scent of the other, being close. John had to leave not longer after, and Sherlock removed his arms from around him reluctantly, knowing that the next time they saw each other, he wouldn't be able to touch him like that.

“I'll come by tomorrow,” he told John when they stood at the door, both unwilling to open it.

“You don't have to stay for long. I'll tell her that you've got work to do. You can leave early. It's really not- just a short while. That'll do.”

“John. It'll be alright. I'll text you before I come over.”

“Alright.” John sighed. He glanced up at him, worrying his lip, and then took his face into his hands before kissing him. It was short and bittersweet, leaving Sherlock yearning for more, but he knew that it would have to be like this from now on.

John left, and Sherlock stayed behind with nothing to occupy him but his thoughts. He attempted to focus on the investigation, but he'd hit a dead end once more, and his mind inevitably wandered where it spent most of its time these days.

He knew that seeing John again in a situation where they had to hide would be difficult, but it was vital, too. Whatever Mary had on him, he wasn't willing to give her more reasons to make John's life hell. He'd get through it, for John.

* * *

Sherlock questioned his own sanity for the umpteenth time as he stood in front of John and Mary's door, wondering just what he'd been thinking to agree to this.

He hadn't been, that was the problem. Or rather, he hadn't been thinking of anything but John. It was him who would benefit from Sherlock doing this, which, of course, meant that there was no way in hell Sherlock _wasn't_ doing it.

Still, he hadn't anticipated the persuasion it would take to actually go inside. He took a deep breath, trying to collect himself before ringing the bell.

It was John who met him at the door when he'd climbed the short flight of stairs, and for that he was grateful.

“Hey,” he said, giving him a pained look. Sherlock shook his head slightly, putting on a smile.

“John. Good to see you.”

John blinked at him, then nodded once before stepping aside. “Come in, won't you?” he asked, his voice loud and clear, betraying nothing. Sherlock went inside, deliberately not thinking of an animal being caught in a trap as the door closed behind him.

“This way,” John said, leading him through the short hall to the living room. Mary was sitting on the sofa when he entered, looking up from her laptop as they came in.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she exclaimed, pushing herself up from the cushions. Her hair had grown longer since Sherlock had last seen her, framing her face in a flattering way. A strand fell into her forehead. She pushed it behind her ear before holding out her hand, fixing him with an attentive look. “So good to see you again!”

“And you,” Sherlock said, taking her hand with a smile that he hoped to god didn't look as plastered on as it felt.

“That was a surprise, finding out you're in Berlin too.” Mary's eyes moved over to John at Sherlock's side. “John never told me you were here.”

John opened his mouth to speak, and Sherlock, knowing that whatever he was about to say would sound entirely too defensive, cut in. “I was surprised, too. I came here on rather short notice.”

“What a coincidence that you ran into John again, then! What are the chances?”

 _The universe is rarely so lazy._ He smiled tightly. “Indeed. Are you working here as well?”

“Not at the moment, no.” Then she waved her hand, nodding towards the table. “Oh, but do sit down, come on, in you go! You want a cup of tea?”

Sherlock could imagine few things in the world that he wanted less than to have a cup of tea with the wife of his lover, but he nodded anyway.

“I can't stay long, but some tea would be lovely.”

He hated this, the stiffness of his words, of John's body hovering close, but never close enough. Mary nodded and headed for the kitchen, returning but a few moments later with a cup for him. The kettle must have just boiled. Sherlock noted that she hadn't asked how he preferred his tea. He raised the cup to his lips and tried it, nearly grimacing at the lack of sweetness.

“Thank you.”

“So,” Mary said, crossing her arms. Her elbows rested on the table as she leaned in. “What is it you're doing here?”

“I'm afraid I can't say,” Sherlock replied with what he hoped was a regretful smile. “It's mainly research, but I'm not allowed to talk about it in detail.”

“So John gets to know and I don't? How unfair!” Her tone was joking, but her eyes were trained on him.

Sherlock staggered for a split second before he shook his head. “Oh, no, he doesn't really know what it is I'm working on either. He just accompanies me from time to time when I go out, that's all.”

“Really?” she asked with her lips curved, her eyes boring into his. “Because when I got back, I almost thought I was in the wrong flat. Everything was so dusty. The bedroom looked like it hadn't been used in weeks.”

Sherlock's heart skipped a beat at her words. He saw John giving everything not to freeze from the corner of his eye, and he forced his gaze to stay on Mary, curling his lips into an easy smile.

“I'll admit that my working hours are rather flexible, so working through the night is not an unusual occurrence. Otherwise I'll have to guess and say that your husband is just lazy when it comes to housework. Which I can't blame him for,” he said, briefly flashing a smile in John's direction without catching his eyes. “It's terribly boring, if I do say so myself.”

Mary hummed. “I see. Well, I _did_ leave him here all alone. No wonder he got bored.”

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the condescension in her words. Like John was a child that she'd abandoned at home. He lifted his cup in response, dodging having to give an answer. He felt John's eyes on him, but didn't dare returning the look for fear of betraying too much with his face.

“John mentioned that you were gone,” he stirred the conversation away from the topic once he'd swallowed. “Been anywhere exciting?”

“Oh, not really. Just here and there, nothing I haven't seen before.” She smiled, and Sherlock knew that this was all he was going to get on the matter. As expected, she changed the topic to what he'd been up to in the meantime, asking after his life in London. Sherlock managed to tell her as little of actual substance as possible while talking enough to distract her from the fact.

“I never much cared for London,” Mary commented when he trailed off, hunching her shoulders in a slight shrug. God knew what Sherlock was supposed to say to _that_.

“Well,” he said, “it's not for everyone.”

John, who had been silent during their entire exchange, shifted in his seat, staring at the table rather than looking at either of them. Sherlock was reminded that he wasn't the only uncomfortable one in this situation. He decided that it was time to end it now.

He downed the rest of his tea, verging on burning his throat, and put down the cup with a click. “Well, I'm afraid I'll have to be on my way. Duty calls,” he said with a smile in Mary's direction. She nodded.

“Of course.”

He looked at John, who was pursing his lips. “I could use your assistance. Mind joining me for a while?”

“No, that's okay,” John said, getting up before Sherlock even had the chance to.

“Will you be home for dinner?” Mary asked, crossing her legs as she looked at him. Sherlock hated the domesticity the question suggested, hated her for posing it. He'd spent half an hour in this flat, and already his patience was wearing thin.

“I don't think so,” John said. “It will probably take a while, it usually does. Best don't wait up.”

“Right then. I think I'll go out myself. I'll see you in the morning, I guess.”

“Yeah. See you.”

Sherlock shook Mary's hand again, nodding when she invited him to come back soon, and left with no intention of doing so.

John exhaled deeply once the door fell shut behind them, shaking his head when Sherlock looked at him. They walked in silence until they were out of the house and around the corner.

“That wasn't too bad,” Sherlock offered.

“Yeah, I suppose,” John said tersely, and Sherlock bit his tongue and stayed silent. On unspoken agreement they made their way to Sherlock's flat. John put the kettle on once they arrived, and Sherlock was grateful for the small bit of familiarity. He felt more worn out than the short visit warranted, and John didn't feel better, if the frown on his face was anything to go by.

Neither of them said much as they had tea. John seemed unwilling to offer any insight on his thoughts, and Sherlock kept silent out of fear of overstepping his boundaries. It was a heavy silence, not quite uncomfortable, but tinged with the emotional strain of the day, of their entire situation.

They ate leftover takeaway when they became hungry, neither of them willing to leave the house, and then sat together on the sofa. Sherlock's arm was wrapped tightly around John's shoulders while John's head rested on his chest. Sherlock absorbed the touch like air, trying to store the feeling in his cells, to stock up for the impending dry spell.

Somehow it wasn't enough.

The minutes ticked away too fast, made worse by the knowledge that their time was limited. It was only just getting dark when John mumbled, “I should get going.”

Sherlock turned to look at him. “She said she was going out as well,” he pointed out, but closed his mouth when John shook his head.

“She might have changed her mind. Or lied. I don't want to raise her suspicions by coming home too late.”

Sherlock swallowed around the tightness in his throat. “Right.” He knew that it wasn't _him_ that was being rejected, not really, but it still stung. “Will I see you tomorrow?” he then asked, hating how needy he sounded, hating that he needed to ask at all. There weren't even any news about the investigation to justify the question.

“I'd like to come by,” John replied. Sherlock exhaled deeply, hearing the answer for what it was – not a yes.

“I'd be glad if you could make it,” he said, and then squeezed his hand because the need to touch was already becoming overwhelming.

He walked him to the door. John left after a final kiss, much too chaste and fleeting for Sherlock's taste, and he leaned his back against the wall, staring at the closed door for a long time.

He'd known that it would be challenging, but he'd been sure that they'd make it, somehow, one way or another. And yet he couldn't help but feel that John was already slipping away from him.

* * *

Sherlock could handle seeing less of John. He could handle having to be discreet, he could even handle having to hide. What he absolutely could not deal with, however, was John becoming someone he didn't know how to reach, right in front of his eyes.

Because the changes in him were undeniable, and it had been mere _days_.

The bags under his eyes were more pronounced, accompanied by dark circles most days. But the exhaustion wasn't of a physical kind, Sherlock could tell. It was evident in the deep lines carved into his skin, in the frown that never quite left, even when they were together. In the terseness of his replies, his short temper – never directed at Sherlock, but no less worrying for it - and his unwillingness to talk about any of it.

John had never been very forward about his feelings, save for those that concerned Sherlock, but this was an entirely new kind of reticence. The way Sherlock saw it, everything about his feelings concerned him, and he was being let it on none of it. Which, in return, led to Sherlock's own agitation heightening.

John was changing before his eyes, and it worried him to no end.

Because it hurt, having to see him like this. It tore at him. And maybe he wasn't dealing with the entire situation quite as well as he'd anticipated either, and he knew that they were both in the same boat but he did not know how to start the conversation that would allow John to see that.

He tried his best to push his concern down, to enjoy the time they could spend together without tainting it with pointless brooding. He was not successful.

In the end, it took him almost a week to snap, and he was surprised that John didn't do it before him. Sherlock honestly didn't know whether it had always been that bad, back in Tallinn, and if he just hadn't noticed - which was worrying in itself - or if things really had worsened.

They stood in the kitchen when it happened, a few days later, waiting for the water to boil.

“Are you coming over tomorrow?” Sherlock asked, watching the steam rising from the kettle.

“I don't know,” came the expected reply, and Sherlock gripped the counter so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He knew that John was looking at him, felt his gaze on him like a brush of his hand, but he couldn't bear talking to him right now, not if that was all he was going to get from him.

Oblivious to his need for space, John asked, “Why are you reacting like this?”

Sherlock felt something ugly rising in him, boiling over and seeping through his veins. He knew that he shouldn't let it, but he did not _want_ to stop it, not after everything they'd endured, not anymore.

“Why shouldn't I?” he asked, turning to look at John. “Isn't it you who keeps telling me that I _deserve better?_ ”

John's face fell. Sherlock almost regretted his words, but he knew, deep down, that he wouldn't take them back if they were what finally got them to _talk_.

“You knew it would be like this,” John said, clearly trying to stay calm. “You _knew_. I told you time and time again, I told you to get out if you couldn't handle it-”

“Oh, you told me to get out, did you? Why, John? Why would I _ever_ do that, if I have a reason to stay? Because unlike you, I _do_ have one.”

John tilted his head, blinking at him as his jaw tightened. “What do you mean? Are you saying that I'm not invested in this relationship?”

“I don't mean _us,_ John, I'm talking about you and Mary. There is nothing binding you to that woman, all you feel for her are negative things, and yet you're staying with her, enduring this hell and telling _me_ to get out, when you can't even do it _yourself_.”

The words hit John like a lash. His face contorted with a complicated emotion that Sherlock couldn't name, that cut into him like it was his own. It hurt, knowing that he was responsible for the expression, but at the same time it felt so good to finally say those things, after weeks of not having dared to even think them.

“You don't know what you're talking about, Sherlock,” John said through his teeth, his shoulders rigid with tension.

Sherlock felt like there was a lot he didn't know, these days.

“No, I suppose I don't,” he retorted, “since you never bloody _tell_ me anything.”

John threw his hands up, his jaw clenching in anger, frustration. “I can't tell you, Sherlock, I bloody well told you that! There are things about me that you can't know, things that would make you turn away in disgust, that would put you in _danger_ and I _can't_ speak about them, I can't! Why do you want to make me? Why can't we just not talk about them?”

His face was pure agony, a deeply rooted pain that now bubbled to the surface, and Sherlock hadn't known he was going to speak until he'd already shouted, “Because I can't stand seeing you like that, John! You're hurting and I can't bear it, I can't bear not being able to help you, it kills me!”

The following silence was loud enough to ring in his ears. John was staring at him, his face completely unguarded for a split second, and the expression tore at Sherlock's insides. He had no words for it.

John sharply turned around, half facing away from Sherlock, his fists clenching at his side, and Sherlock followed, because if there was one thing he truly could not bear, it was John turning away from him.

“John,” he said, but John didn't turn around. He reached for his shoulder, repeating his name. John flinched under his touch, his breath ragged, and Sherlock, growing desperate, begged, "John, please."

And that finally seemed to get through to him. His shoulders slumped, and Sherlock watched breathlessly as he turned around, his face entirely defeated.

He'd finally broken. This was what it had taken to tear down the wall John had built around himself. All that was left were the shards, and Sherlock could see in his eyes that he was about to pull them out one by one, that he was finally coming clean.

His jaw worked as he took a few deep breaths, and when he spoke, his voice only wavered slightly.

“Sherlock, you need to understand that I am not a good person.”

Sherlock stared at him. “Do you think I am?” He took a step towards him, shaking his head. “You know me, John. You know me better than anyone. You should know that I, of all people, am in no position to judge someone because they're not a _good person_.”

John exhaled loudly. “It's not that simple.” He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. “I told you. It's so bloody complicated.”

“Then help me understand,” Sherlock urged him, reaching out to touch him again. John crumbled beneath his hand.

“I need to sit down for this,” he said wearily, moving towards the sofa like he was in trance. Sherlock followed him, sitting down as close as he dared without making him feel caged.

John stared ahead, not meeting his eyes. Sherlock itched to reach between them and lock their hands, but held back to give him the space he needed.

Eventually John began, his eyes shifting to Sherlock's shoulder as he spoke. “I told you there were several reasons we couldn't be together, back in Tallinn. My marriage only being one of them.”

“I remember.”

John exhaled audibly. “That wasn't entirely true. A lot of things... happened, in my past, and are still happening now, but it's all connected to my marriage, one way or another.” He took a deep breath. “Or rather, it's all connected to Mary.”

He licked his lips, bringing his hands into his lap. Sherlock watched them clenching and unclenching.

“I should say first that I didn't know, in the beginning. I really did love her when we met. I loved her when we got married. It was never... some kind of epic love, that eats you up from the inside and sets you on fire.”

His eyes darted to Sherlock's face at that before dropping to the cushions, and Sherlock swallowed dryly. He felt hot all over. The urge to reach out became stronger, but he knew that he had to let John tell his story.

“It was just easy with her. Nice and easy. I know now that I shouldn't have married her, that there was never enough base for that, but I thought that was what I needed at the time. What I wanted.”

He huffed, rubbing his nose. “We met when I was in the army. She was doing freelance work for the military, she said. We got along nicely, got married after a year. Things were fine, in the beginning. Then she started taking other jobs.”

He stopped and swallowed, and Sherlock could tell from the tension in his body that this was the crucial part. That this was what he'd kept buried for so long that it now pained him to dig it out.

“At first they were just small side jobs. Or so she told me. Top secret affairs, I never quite knew what the hell was going on. But then she started taking those bigger jobs. Outside of the whole secret mission stuff, I mean. Private operations, she called them. At this point I was out of the army, recovering from getting shot, so I mostly stayed home. She was away all the time, and sometimes she asked me to come with her, drive her somewhere, 'assist her' with getting close to someone.”

He huffed out a laugh that lacked all humour. “And I did. Until she came home one night, telling me to pack immediately. Something had gone wrong, she said. I asked her what happened, but she told me to leave it until we were _safe_. I didn't press it until we were already out of the country.”

John's eyes squeezed shut as he hung his head, covering his face with his hands. Sherlock couldn't watch it.

“John,” he said quietly. He didn't know how to continue, but John dropped his hands at the sound of his name, looking up. This time he was directly looking at Sherlock, a pleading expression crossing his features.

“If I'd known, if I'd only demanded that she told me what was going on before we left-” He shook his head, closing his eyes. “Maybe things would be different. I would have let them arrest her. I wouldn't have helped her escape.”

He pursed his lips in an attempt to compose himself, then inhaled deeply, looking straight at Sherlock before he spoke his next words. Ever the soldier.

“She assassinated people, Sherlock. She killed human beings for money.”

Sherlock had already suspected something like this the longer John had spoken, but hearing it from his mouth was almost excruciating.

John had lived with this knowledge every day he'd known Sherlock, had kept it secret since before they'd even met. Sherlock exhaled audibly. Complicated, indeed.

“John,” he said, but John held up his hand.

“Please, just let me say this,” he asked, clearing his throat. “I just need to get it out once. You can say whatever you want to say when I'm done. Just give me this chance.”

Their eyes locked as he spoke, and Sherlock closed his mouth, nodding him to continue.

“As you can imagine, I was horrified. I'd never realised what she was up to. People _died,_ and I just sat there doing nothing. Worse, I helped her.” John shook his head once, his jaw twitching as his eyes moved to the ceiling.

“When I confronted her, she told me that the people she killed were bad. That they _should_ be killed, deserved to die. That we were doing good.”

He huffed out something close to a laugh, the absence of humour twisting it into a pained sound that shook Sherlock to the core.

“God, I was so stupid. So blind. I should have seen it sooner, shouldn't I? I should have stopped her. Gotten out while I still could. Instead I sat around and- _helped_ her kill these people. She didn't stop after that, of course. I threatened to go to the police, and she just laughed. Told me that I should go ahead and try, if I wanted to be locked up alongside her.”

“She threatened you?” Sherlock asked, his voice irrecognisable to his own ears. John nodded once.

“I did help her get to all those places, get in touch with people. I helped her escape after her latest mission had gone wrong. Wouldn't exactly have been hard to frame me as her accomplice.”

He blinked, meeting his eyes again, and at the sight of all the hopelessness of his situation reflected in his face, Sherlock couldn't help himself. He reached out, this time taking John's hands between his. John's fingers curled around his and he held onto him like a lifeline, taking a few breaths before he was fit to speak again. Sherlock rubbed his thumb over his skin in what he hoped was a soothing manner as he waited.

John visibly had to force his next words out.

“I did a bit of research, a while later. The people she- we killed, they weren't all bad. Some, yeah. But a couple of them- they were fathers. Mothers. The only crime they'd ever committed was tax fraud, or upsetting their spouse, or- I don't know. Mary didn't care. She took the jobs she was offered, never even hesitated. And made sure to remind me that it was both of us who'd killed our way around the world. That it was a 'we', not a 'her', and if she went down, I'd go down with her.”

He exhaled slowly, dropping his eyes to the sofa. “So that's it. Now you know.”

The following silence was deafening to Sherlock's ears. There were a million things he wanted, _needed_ to say, his mind racing through all of them, but all he could focus on was the defeated set of John's shoulders as he waited for his words. As if he was awaiting his conviction.

“John. Listen to me.” Sherlock leaned forwards, tightening the grip of his hands around John's, feeling the way they twitched under his touch.

He waited until John looked up. “You did not pull the trigger. You didn't kill those people. Mary did. She lied to you. You did not kill any of them.”

“I helped her do it,” John whispered, his voice breaking as he forced the words out. His hands clenched beneath Sherlock's and Sherlock held them firmly, anchoring him.

“She lied,” he said again, taking one hand from John's to gently lift his chin. Their eyes met, and Sherlock shook his head. “It wasn't a 'we'. It was just her, from the beginning. You got pulled into all of this against your will. You had no choice. That doesn't make it your fault. It doesn't.”

John's jaw twitched under Sherlock's intense gaze. He exhaled a shuddering breath as he lowered his head, and that was something Sherlock had never wanted to see, an image he could not bear – John Watson hanging his head in shame.

“There is something I need to tell you, alright? Something you need to hear, and to understand. John.”

John looked up, his eyes roaming over his face before locking with Sherlock's. Sherlock made sure that he didn't look away, that his attention was on him and nowhere else, and then slid from the sofa. John watched in silence as he knelt in front of him, loosening his grip on John's hands to cup his face, firmly holding it in his hands.

“I forgive you.”

John made a pained sound. His eyes fell shut. Sherlock gave him a moment. His thumb brushed John's cheek, a subtle demand for his attention. When his eyes settled back on Sherlock's, clouded with everything he'd said, he continued, “I forgive you. You are never going to hear those words from the people that died, or from their loved ones, but _I_ forgive you.”

John shook his head, a weak movement. “How can you?”

“Because you're a good man, John Watson, with a troubled past. A good person that terrible things have happened to, but you are not those things, and you are not defined by them. You are a good man. You care. You love. You're everything I've ever admired combined in one human being. You're stronger than I can even imagine. You're resilient. I would trust you with my life, John. I would put it in your hands without beating an eye.”

He leaned in, hovering close to his face for a moment before bringing their lips together. John melted against him, his shoulder's shaking as they kissed. Sherlock wrapped his arms around them, holding him close. Their breathing was ragged, loud in the silence after the heavy words they'd uttered, and Sherlock's brow furrowed as he tasted John, tried to pour everything he didn't know how to express into the kiss, and hoped that it was enough.

“Don't make me leave,” John whispered when they parted, not opening his eyes. Their foreheads rested against each other. John's fingers clutched Sherlock's shirt as he took a shuddering breath. “Don't make me go home tonight.”

“Never,” Sherlock said, nudging his cheek as he sought his lips again. “Never.”

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep that night. John composed a quick text to Mary, telling her that he'd kip on Sherlock's sofa, and then turned his phone off without waiting for a reply.

They stayed on the couch, limbs entangled so thoroughly that they might never part again. Sherlock wouldn't have minded. John finally relaxed in his arms, letting himself rest like he hadn't since before Mary's return.

“You make me feel safe,” he muttered into his chest at one point, and Sherlock only swallowed, moving his hand over his back again and again.

He eventually dozed off on Sherlock's shoulder, his hand still fisted into Sherlock's shirt, and Sherlock held him as tightly as he dared without waking him up.

John was quiet the next morning, but it wasn't the silence that had led them to last night in the first place. It seemed that his confession had taken a weight off his shoulders that had been dragging him down gradually, and when they kissed goodbye, there was a new underlying understanding that made letting go even harder than before.

On his own, left alone with the knowledge that John was returning to Mary, Sherlock took a shower and then retreated into his mind palace to set up a new room.

John's words had put everything into perspective. A horrible perspective, undoubtedly, but at least everything _finally_ made sense. John had no emotional ties to Mary that he couldn't cut. He quite literally couldn't leave for fear of losing his freedom.

But what kind of freedom was it, when the threat of being convicted for crimes he had not committed constantly loomed over him? When the knowledge that he'd married an assassin was ever-present in his mind? That he'd not seen it, and worse yet, helped her in his unawareness?

Taking all these new pieces of information into account, Sherlock found himself facing a rather complex dilemma. He was here only on the basis of investigating Moran. John would inevitably have to move on at one point, now that Mary was back. She'd take a new job, tell him to come along. Sherlock could not follow. Their relationship was already suspicious as it was, there was no way he could _accidentally_ end up where John went to again.

And that was another point. Sherlock was supposed to work on the Moran case, further the investigation. An investigation that was going nowhere. Instead of digging deeper, his mind bent and twisted around the Mary issue every waking second.

Sherlock knew that if he did just one thing in his life, it would be helping John out of his situation. What he didn't know yet was how. Never mind their impending parting, he had no means to uncover Mary's past in a way that would allow him to separate John from the ugly parts.

That didn't mean that he would stop looking, though.

He didn't mention any of those thoughts to John, knowing that they would only heighten his agitation. They were both aware that their time was limited. They both understood that there was no way to completely prove John's innocence. Whatever trick Sherlock thought of, he knew that John had already turned it three times over in his mind, and so he vowed to keep silent until he came up with a plan that would work.

Despite the hopelessness of their situation, John was visibly changed. The tiredness still sat in the lines of his face, but he wasn't brooding every minute they spent together. When Sherlock attempted to distract him, he let him. Sometimes he laughed about something he'd done, and the smile lingered on his lips even as the conversation carried on.

“Thank you,” he said one day, digging his fingers into Sherlock's side. Sherlock lifted his head from John's chest to get a look at him.

“What for?” he asked, and John gave him a small, genuine smile.

“You make me as happy as I can be. I appreciate it.”

Sherlock blinked at him before he swooped down to kiss the smile off his face.

“The same goes for you,” he murmured, burying his face in John's neck. He inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the smell so he could keep it once he left.

“I'm glad,” John mumbled, and Sherlock held him closer.

He was never going to give this up, he promised himself in the privacy of his own mind. He'd die before he did.

Because Sherlock knew that helping John out of his marriage bordered on the impossible, but that didn't mean he had to accept it. He wasn't about to leave John behind in a situation like this. In fact, he wasn't about to leave him behind at all.

Sherlock had done a lot of thinking since John had confided in him, and he had come to the conclusion that there was one thing John had not considered, one last way out, should everything else fail.

John may have thought about every possibility he himself had, but John did not have a brother that practically controlled the British government.

Sherlock, on the other hand, did.

As much as the idea of asking Mycroft for help made Sherlock's skin crawl, he knew that he would do it in a heartbeat if it benefited John. He was almost positive that Mycroft would be able to help, and he was certain that he would, too, if only to have Sherlock in his debt.

Sherlock wouldn't hesitate for a second if it came down to it.

In the end, it was Mycroft who contacted him first. Three days had passed and Sherlock, yearning for a distraction from the affair his mind had been turning over and over without pause, was pleasantly surprised to find that Mycroft had just what he needed.

“There's been a new development concerning your investigation,” he told him over the phone, and Sherlock listened up.

“What happened?”

“An incident from last month that we just got word of. Moran apparently resurfaced in the northwestern part of Russia. His name was mentioned by a suspect during his interrogation.”

“What is he suspected of?”

“Treason.”

Sherlock hummed. “Give me the details.”

“Check your email, it's already there. If you need anything, let me know.”

He disconnected and Sherlock immediately got up to fetch his laptop. He read over the transcript of the suspect's report. Then he reached for his phone and dialled John's number.

“Can you come over?” Sherlock asked when he picked up, barely giving him time to say hello.

“Now's not a great time, actually,” John said, and Sherlock exhaled audibly. “Why, what happened?”

“I can't talk over the phone. Mycroft just gave me news about Moran.”

“Really? I, uh, could stay for about half an hour if I left now?”

“That's enough,” Sherlock decided immediately. The information wasn't so delicate that it warranted the urgency, but he would take any opportunity to see John, if only for a few minutes. “Hurry.”

“I'll be there in a bit,” John promised, and then hung up.

Sherlock boiled the kettle while he waited. John arrived just when the tea was ready, and Sherlock pushed a cup into his hands before tilting his laptop towards him.

“This is the latest report. The incident happened last month. A man in Northwestern Russia who is suspected of treason mentioned Moran's name during his interrogation. Same approach, same pattern – he contacted him via email, offered a large amount of money, blew the whistle on him once he got the files he'd asked for. The man worked in a research facility of the government, the information he traded was top secret. Accordingly, the sum he got baited with was considerable, to say the least.”

He sat back, waiting for John to read the file. John didn't move. Sherlock realised that he hadn't spoken in a while. He glanced at him with a frown.

“You've gone quiet,” he observed, tilting his head. “You're thinking. What is it?”

“Nothing, I just...” John looked uncomfortable, pursing his lips as he gazed at him. “I was just wondering, uh, you know of a city that's called something like Kalingrad?”

“Kaliningrad,” Sherlock corrected, narrowing his eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Do you know where it is?”

Sherlock fixed him with a stare. “It's in the Northwest,” he said, and John's lips tightened.

“Does that happen to be the city the incident took place in?”

“Yes.”

"Last month, you said."

"Yes," Sherlock repeated. "John."

John cursed under his breath.

“What is it?” Sherlock asked, getting impatient. “What do you know about this?”

“It's just-” John huffed out a breath. “Kaliningrad, I've heard that before, recently. It's the city Mary went to on her last trip.”

The words were like a slap. Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sounds came out. John was watching him silently, and Sherlock knew that they were both thinking the same thing.

If Mary was connected to Sebastian Moran, the stakes had just gotten a lot higher. Impossibly so. It meant that Sherlock couldn't uncover Moran without dragging Mary down too, and John alongside her.

John, who was sitting across him with a deep frown, his hands curled into fists on the table.

“Fuck.”

John regarded him with a grim expression.

“You do realise that this worsens my situation considerably.”

“I am aware." Sherlock got up, pushing his hands into his hair. “The dates the suspect named in his report match the time Mary was there?”

John glanced at the screen, then nodded.

“This isn't good,” Sherlock muttered. “This isn't good at all.”

“Sherlock-”

“No,” he cut him off, shaking his head. “This doesn't have to mean anything. It could be a coincidence. It could have nothing to do with Moran whatsoever. There's not enough data.”

_The universe is rarely so lazy._

“Sherlock,” John said again, and this time Sherlock looked at him. “You know as well as I do that this is one coincidence too much,” he said gently, and Sherlock hated it, hated that he was the one comforting him when it should be the other way around.

“I won't let you be dragged into this,” he said sharply. John just returned his look, saying nothing. Sherlock wanted to punch the wall.

“There's not much you can do,” John said eventually.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. “I can try.” He took a deep breath, attempting to clear his head. “We need more information. There's no use in sitting here and talking about it when we're missing half of the story.”

“What do you suggest we do?”

“We dig deeper. We find out what Mary's connection to Moran is. Then we decide how we continue.”

John nodded. Sherlock crossed the distance between them, taking his face in his hands. “I mean it,” he said, shaking his head vehemently. “You won't end up in prison over a crime you didn't commit. I won't let it happen.”

“Okay,” John said, and Sherlock leaned in to brush their lips together, all too aware of the resignation in his voice.

“I need to look through this report again,” he said when he pulled back, turning the laptop around.

John glanced at his phone. “Shit. And I need to get going.”

He took his jacket, standing up before tilting his head for another kiss. Sherlock caught his arm before he could draw back, fixing him with his gaze.

“Promise me that you'll be careful, John. You can't let her know that we're onto her. She absolutely can't know.”

“I know, Sherlock.”

“You need to be cautious,” Sherlock insisted. “The entire operation is in danger if she finds out. _You'll_ be in danger. I can't have her hurt you. I won't let her.”

“Yeah, or you.”

They stared at each other for a beat. Sherlock finally nodded.

“Not a word. Not a glance. She can't even suspect that we found something out.”

John nodded grimly. “She won't.” He turned to the door. His hand was already on the handle as he looked back and asked, “What are you going to do?”

“I think,” Sherlock said, letting out a deep breath, “I'm going to contact Mycroft.”


	10. Chapter 10

“You know that what you're asking of me is illegal.”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know that we _both_ know that you've done things that are far higher on the scale of illegality, Mycroft,” he retorted, ignoring the disturbed look John was giving him.

“Never without reason, brother.”

“I have a reason,” Sherlock said through his teeth, “and I assure you that as soon as I have definite proof, you will know.”

“Why can't you tell me now?”

“Like I said about twenty times already, it's sensitive information and potentially dangerous. For myself and others.” More others than himself, but Mycroft didn't need to know that.

Mycroft was silent for a long while. Sherlock kept quiet, knowing that he almost had him.

“I will give you half an hour,” Mycroft finally said, and Sherlock let out a relieved breath. John raised his eyebrows, and he nodded once. “And I expect results, Sherlock. Don't take this privilege lightly.”

“I don't. I'll have something to tell you soon, promise.” Possibly along with another request, but he would talk about that when it was due.

Mycroft sighed on the other end of the line. “I'll send you the login credentials in a minute. Half an hour, Sherlock.”

“That's all I need.” Sherlock exhaled audibly. “Thank you.”

Mycroft was silent again. “I'll hear from you, then,” he said, and disconnected.

“I can't believe he actually agreed,” John remarked, crossing his arms.

“He's never going to let me live it down.”

Sherlock turned when his laptop pinged, notifying him of a new email. He opened the link, then followed the instructions. Within half a minute he was inside the database of MI5.

“Christ,” John muttered, leaning closer to the screen.

“We have thirty minutes,” Sherlock said. “You said she told you that she was from Chiswick?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock began typing. There were several Mary Morstans in the archive, but only about a dozen Mary Elizabeth Morstans, and only three that were born in the right year.

“There's only one Mary Elizabeth Morstan from Chiswick,” Sherlock said. He clicked on the file, skimming over it. There was only one paragraph, consisting of a few short sentences.

“She was stillborn,” John realised beside him, blinking at the screen in shock.

“She never lived,” Sherlock confirmed, reading through the short text again. “Her gravestone is on Chiswick cemetery.”

John clenched his jaw. “What about the other two?” he asked. Sherlock could hear from his voice that he knew they'd found the right one, but he opened the files anyway.

“The second one moved to Scotland four years ago. News reporter. That's a solid alibi, if you ask me. The third Mary wasn't born in Chiswick. She's from Manchester. Mother of three, works as a primary school teacher.” He glanced at John. “That's all of them.”

John bit his lip. “So that means...”

“Mary Morstan is a fake identity. She must have acquired it sometime before you met her.”

“Jesus.” John ran a hand over his face, then got up. “Not even her _bloody-_ everything she ever told me is just a goddamn- Christ.”

He let out a frustrated breath. “Every time I think we've reached rock bottom it keeps getting worse.”

Sherlock nodded grimly. He copied the file, then left the archive. Getting up, he crossed the distance between John and himself, wrapping his arms around him in a tight embrace. John sank against him immediately.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock murmured. “This must be hard for you.”

John huffed out a laugh, his arms flexing around Sherlock's waist. “It's just one more thing, you know? Just one more thing she lied about, in the end. It shouldn't come as a surprise by now.”

“I don't think that makes it easier.”

John was silent for a beat. “No,” he then admitted. “It doesn't.”

Sherlock nodded and rubbed his back. Then he dropped a kiss on the crown of his head before letting go.

“What now?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Does Mary leave her laptop at home when she's out?”

“Unless she's on a trip, yes. It's password-protected, though.”

The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up. “I think,” he said, “it's time I paid you another visit.”

* * *

Sherlock rang the doorbell at precisely a quarter to two, ten minutes after Mary had left for an appointment. “She'll be gone for at least two hours,” John had promised, but Sherlock didn't want to waste any time.

John let him in and Sherlock walked into his flat for the third time, feeling even less comfortable there now that he knew the whole truth.

“I missed you,” John said, stepping close for a kiss that Sherlock gladly expanded. They hadn't seen each other since they'd looked Mary up, and Sherlock had grown more impatient by the minute, the knowledge that John was sharing a bed with an assassin leaving him deeply unsettled.

“I missed you too,” he replied when they parted, pressing his lips to his forehead as he took a deep breath. “Now,” he then said, straightening his back, “we shouldn't waste any time. Where is her laptop?”

John fetched it for him. Sherlock lowered himself on a chair, starting the programme he'd used on Chapman's laptop in Tallinn.

“I'm in,” he announced shortly after, moving the laptop so John could have a look too.

The background picture was a photograph of John and Mary. Both of them were smiling into the camera, their wedding rings blinking like a flashlight as they waved.

Neither of them commented on it.

“I'm going to copy everything from her hard disk,” Sherlock said, “so I can have a closer look at home. For now we'll just search the surface.”

“Emails?”

“For a start.”

Sherlock was quite sure that if there had ever been any mails between Mary and Moran they wouldn't find them in her inbox, and he was right.

"Maybe she has several accounts,” he said when John sighed, opening the next folder.

They spent the next hour looking through the contents of her laptop. There were a few files that Sherlock supposed could come in handy, like transfers to her bank account – and to another one on her name, making him wonder how many she had - but nothing on Moran.

“Well, that was highly unsatisfactory.” He closed the file, letting out a deep breath as he stared at the background image. Then his eyes fell on an app in the top left corner. He moved the cursor, opening it with a double click. John gave him a look.

“Her calendar? Really?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Can't hurt. Sometimes the best hiding spot is in plain sight.”

He scrolled through the diary, going back to the weeks Mary had been away. The squares were all blank. He returned to the present day, separating the hairdresser's and doctor's appointments from the important bits.

Then he saw it.

“Oh,” he breathed out.

John raised an eyebrow. “What? What is it?”

Sherlock pointed at the square for the upcoming Friday. Written beneath the date was _4.45pm - Moran_.

John gaped at the screen. His eyes snapped to Sherlock's face, then immediately back to the words. “No bloody way,” he got out. “That can't- that isn't-”

He broke off, standing up abruptly to take a few steps. “Do you think that's legit?”

“Why would it be in her diary if it wasn't?” Sherlock asked, but he folded his hands together and squinted at the screen as he thought. He understood John's disbelief; it was too obvious, too direct compared to the empty weeks before.

And yet, ignoring it was out of the question.

John frowned, his arms hugged around his chest. “I don't like this. Something's off about the whole thing, I don't know. I have a bad feeling about this.”

“You think she planted this?”

“Maybe. Possibly. I don't know what she's up to. But this is... too easy.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, nodding. “It is. But it's the only lead we have right now. We can't _not_ follow it.”

John let out a deep breath before stepping behind Sherlock's chair. Leaning down, he wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Sherlock brought his hands to his forearms, squeezing tightly. John sighed. Sherlock couldn't begin to imagine what he was feeling.

“What do you suggest?” John mumbled, his breath tickling his ear. Sherlock turned his head, leaning in to catch him in a soft kiss.

“We'll follow her on Friday,” he said when they parted. “See if she's actually meeting him, or whatever else she's up to.”

“She'd be the first to actually meet him face to face,” John mumbled. He straightened, shaking his head. “Honestly, I wouldn't even be surprised.”

The bitterness in his voice echoed in Sherlock's head. “We'll see,” he said, shutting down Mary's laptop. “In the best case, we'll know more on Friday.”

In the worst case, they'd walk right into a trap. But they were both aware of the risks, and naming them out loud was useless.

Sherlock left John not much later, more than unwilling to go. But handling the Mary issue right was more important than what either of them felt. The flash drive was safely stored in his pocket when they parted. He'd go through the rest of it at home, but he was sure that they'd already discovered the most interesting part.

John was right, it _was_ suspicious. Did Mary feel too safe? Maybe. Was it a trap? Possibly. The latter would imply that Mary knew about them being onto her, or at least about _someone_ being.

In her line of work, Mary would have to be smart. Perceptive. Sherlock wouldn't put it past her to have picked up on his and John's relationship. In that case, John was in more danger than he'd anticipated, never mind the investigation. But he stood by what he'd told him – this was an opportunity he couldn't let pass.

That didn't stop him from worrying, though.

Sherlock spent the next day searching through the contents of Mary's hard disk, finding nothing else. He glanced at the clock when he decided to give up. It was a Tuesday night. With any luck, John would be up and able to chat.

He did get a reply soon after he sent him a text, and Sherlock pulled his knees to his chest, typing away.

_[To: John]  
Are you alone?_

_[From: John]  
No, but she's in the bedroom. Don't worry, we can talk_

_[To: John]  
Good. I miss you._

_[From: John]  
Miss you too. It's only been a day. Didn't feel like it_

_[To: John]  
I agree. I want to see you again before Friday._

_[From: John]  
I have all of Thursday free, if that's alright?_

_[To: John]  
Of course it is._

Sherlock gazed at the screen after he'd sent the text, chewing on his lip. His fingers hovered over the keys as he debated whether or not he should type out the question he wanted to ask.

They were seeing much less of each other these days, and his body yearned for John's touch as much as his mind, leaving him restless and unsatisfied. He didn't just want sex. He wanted to fall asleep next to him again, have his face be the first thing he saw when he woke up. It was risky, especially now that Mary had potentially gotten wind of their affair. Then again, if she knew, she knew.

Making up his mind, he added,

_Is there any way you could stay the night?_

John took a while to reply, and Sherlock imagined him reading the text, licking his lip as he thought about it. He could see him weighing the risks against his own yearning, trying to talk himself out of it before typing a reply.

_[From: John]  
I'll think of something to make it work_

Sherlock smiled, his stomach prickling at the thought.

_[To: John]  
Good. I very much look forward to it._

_[From: John]  
Me too :)_

Sherlock huffed. He put his phone down before he could type out what was on his mind, the words pushing from inside him to get out.

“I love you,” he tried out into the room instead.

It wasn't quite satisfactory, but until he got to tell John for real one day, it would have to do.

* * *

John arrived on Thursday afternoon, pulling him down by the nape for a kiss before he could say as much as a greeting.

“I couldn't take a lot with me,” he apologised, gesturing towards his small bag. “She would have noticed that something was missing.”

Sherlock just waved his hand. “No matter,” he said. “You can sleep in my clothes.” Then he added with the hint of a smile, “Your toothbrush is still where you left it.”

John stretched up in response and kissed him again.

“I missed you a lot,” he mumbled when they parted, and Sherlock hummed as he wrapped his arms around him and just held on.

“Come on,” he said after a while, reluctantly disentangling himself from John. “We have an entire precious night. We don't need to spend it standing up.”

They relocated to the sofa for a good hour, relaxing into each other's arms as the stress of the past few days fell away. John snuck a hand into Sherlock's hair, petting it with gentle strokes. Sherlock responded by holding him even closer. He gave a muffled groan when John's fingers stopped their gentle ministration, and John chuckled and resumed his movements until Sherlock melted against him.

A long while later, Sherlock deemed them both relaxed enough to pose the question on his mind.

“What did you tell Mary?”

“That we're looking through some books for research, that it might get late, and that I'll kip on your sofa if it takes too long. No details.”

“That's good,” Sherlock said. “Only lies have details.”

“Like everything she ever told me?” The words lacked hurt, and so Sherlock didn't tense. John chuckled. “I just didn't want to talk to her for any longer than I had to, that's all.”

Sherlock hummed, his hands drawing circles on John's back. They fell silent again.

When John's stomach rumbled a while later Sherlock asked about dinner, and they settled on takeaway.

“Chinese,” John requested with a smile. “Take fortune cookies, too.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, the corner of his lips quirking in recognition.

“It's on me this time,” he said, and it was a sign of John's happiness at being there that he just nodded.

The food was from Sherlock's favourite Chinese in the city, improved still by John's presence, sharing each dish with him as they ate. Sherlock made a show of predicting the quotes from the fortune cookies and nearly got one right. In return, John made a show of crawling over him and engaging him in slow kissing to convey just how impressed he was.

The kisses grew deeper as they slid down the armrest of the sofa, firmly entangled. John made small sighing sounds into his mouth, letting his hands roam over Sherlock's arms and shoulders.

“Not yet,” Sherlock mumbled when they parted, groaning a little. “I'm too full.”

“I was afraid you'd say that,” John sighed, but rolled off him to snuggle up to his side. “Lucky for us that we've got all night, then.”

Sherlock turned his head to kiss the smile on his lips. “I intend to make good use of it,” he promised, his hands travelling lower on John's belly before brushing his hipbone.

“Tease,” John accused him, but it lacked scolding, and Sherlock only smirked, burying his head in the crook of his neck as he dropped his hand.

“I'm glad you could make it today,” he muttered. He felt the movement of John's head as he nodded.

“Me, too.”

They remained snuggled up like that, just enjoying not having to mind the time for once. After a while, Sherlock took out his phone to search for different pieces of music that he wanted to show John.

They mostly listened in silence, with the odd comment from Sherlock about the composer or making of the song. John just hummed along, clearly uneducated on the topic but listening intently.

When Symphony No. 2, 3rd movement started playing, John shifted in recognition.

“That's our song,” he remarked, and Sherlock could hear the smile in his voice.

“One of them,” he corrected, the corner of his lip quirking up. John hummed.

“You trying to tell me something?” he murmured, his breath brushing Sherlock's ear as his hand travelled over his back.

“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed. Then he pushed himself up, gazing at John's face. “Give me a few minutes to freshen up.”

“Go ahead,” John said, smiling at him. Sherlock leaned in for a kiss before disappearing into the bathroom.

When he returned some time later, now in his pyjama bottoms and with his chest bare, John was still curled up on the sofa. His lips stretched into a smile as he took Sherlock in.

“Now that's a sight for sore eyes,” he muttered, letting his eyes linger on Sherlock's chest before gazing up at his face. Sherlock returned the look, their eyes locking, and John's smile turned fond.

Sherlock held out a hand. “Bed?”

John took it, letting himself be pulled up before putting a hand on his shoulder, stealing a kiss.

They walked into the bedroom with their hands joined, their eyes never leaving each other. When they were standing by the bed Sherlock turned around, pressing up against John. The bulge in his trousers rubbed against his pelvis, and the feeling sent shocks of anticipation through him.

John grabbed him around the waist, his eyes roaming over his chest. His hands slipped lower as his gaze moved downwards.

“See anything you like?” Sherlock asked, the nonchalance in his voice a complete farce. The glint in John's eyes as he briefly glanced upwards told him that he saw right through him.

“Might be,” he said lightly, twisting his fingers into the fabric of his trousers. “Should have kept them off,” he mumbled, playing with the rim.

Sherlock huffed, guiding his hands to his arse. “Where's the challenge in that?”

“Oh, so I have to earn this?” John asked playfully, bringing his lips to his neck to kiss a trail down to his collarbone. “I can assure you, I'll do my best.”

“I expect nothing less,” Sherlock replied, swallowing at the fluttering touches. John's fingers moved back to the rim of his trousers, finally slipping beneath the fabric. He stopped short when his hands met naked skin, and Sherlock smirked.

“Oh, did I forget to mention? I did keep _something_ off.”

John huffed out a quiet laugh. “You're the most ridiculous man I know,” he informed him, pulling down his trousers.

“I don't see you complaining,” Sherlock remarked as he stepped out of them, feeling his eyes roam over his nude form.

“I'm definitely not,” John mumbled, his fingers dragging over Sherlock's hipbones, leaving him shuddering.

“I am, though,” Sherlock said, tugging on the hem of John's jumper. “You're wearing entirely too many clothes.”

John hummed. “I can fix that for you,” he said, smirking at him before pulling the fabric over his head. Then he moved on to his jeans, making quick work of getting undressed until they were both stripped bare.

“Much better,” Sherlock declared, cradling his face to bring their lips together. John held onto his wrists, pushing back into the kiss. He let himself fall onto the bed when they parted, wrestling the duvet away before sliding backwards until his back was against the headboard.

“Come here,” he requested, holding out his hands, and Sherlock complied readily, crawling over him. He straddled John's hips, his cock brushing his as he sat back. They both gasped at the touch. John's hands were on him in a second, cupping his face as he pulled him in for a kiss.

“What do you want tonight?” Sherlock asked when they broke apart, moving on to kiss the corner of his lips, the line of his jaw.

John huffed out a quiet laugh, tilting his head to the side to give him better access. His hand slipped into Sherlock's hair. “I honestly don't care, as long as we're together. I'm up for anything. Whatever you want.”

Sherlock hummed in consideration, bringing his attention to John's neck. He inhaled deeply as he kissed a line down the warm skin, marvelling at the familiar smell.

“I think,” he murmured, licking over his pulse, “that I'd quite like for you to fuck me.” John gasped, if at the touch of his tongue or his words, he couldn't tell.

“Of course,” he said, nudging his shoulder to guide him back to his face. “Of course, anything you want.”

They kissed, and Sherlock blindly fumbled around the bedside table before giving up and stretching over.

“Here,” he mumbled, pushing the lube and a condom into John's hands before lowering himself onto his waiting mouth again.

“How do you want to do this?” John asked when they parted.

While Sherlock considered the question, John's fingers travelled down to his navel, stroking around his cock. His own erection brushed his in the process, and Sherlock pressed closer instinctively.

“Like this?” he asked, slightly panting, and John nodded. His fingers curled around Sherlock's cock then, finally touching him, and Sherlock groaned as his eyes fell shut.

John stroked him for a good minute before he eased off, reaching for the lube to coat his fingers.

“Ready?” he mumbled. Sherlock nodded, preparing himself for the sensation. The touch of John's finger was gentle as he probed the sensitive area, caressing his skin with massaging circles before he pushed the tip of his finger in. Sherlock willed himself to embrace the touch, nodding him to go deeper. John did, and Sherlock closed his eyes as his body adjusted to the stretch.

He knew what to expect this time, but if he'd thought that would prepare him for the intensity of having John so close, he'd been wrong. He hid his face in the crook of John's neck, alternating between kissing, sucking and panting as John opened him up.

“More,” he murmured, pushing back on his hand, and John added another finger, his other hand stroking his cock.

“Okay?”

Sherlock nodded his approval, waiting until his body had relaxed enough under John's ministrations to take a deeper stretch.

“Go on,” he asked, knowing that John waited for him to request it.

John drew back before slowly pushing three fingers in, twisting and moving until Sherlock was quivering. He'd stayed away from his prostate so far, but when he sensed Sherlock's growing neediness, he twisted a finger to gently brush the bud.

Sherlock jolted in his lap, letting out a deep moan that John joined in on.

“God, again,” he asked, and John complied, falling into an agonising rhythm of stroking his cock and his insides as he prepared him further.

When John slid in and out of Sherlock's body easily, Sherlock wriggled his hips, leaning in to graze John's cheeks with his lips. “That's enough,” he mumbled against his flushed skin, revelling in the fact that John was as affected as he was. “I'm ready.”

“Okay, love.” John withdrew his hand to roll the condom on. He squeezed more lube onto his fingers before taking himself in hand, groaning at the stimulation of his neglected erection. Coating himself generously, he tilted his head up, kissing Sherlock before he took hold of his hips.

“You wanna do it?” he asked, brushing his thumb over his sharp bone. “Might be easier.”

“Alright.” Sherlock nodded, shifting into position. He held John's erection in place, lowering himself until the head of his cock was past the tight ring of muscles. John had prepared him well, but he took a few seconds to just breathe around the intrusion, letting the element of discomfort melt into sweet pleasure.

John's eyes were on his face, his lips slightly parted as he watched him, and Sherlock leaned in for a kiss before moving to take him in deeper. He bit his lip as he bore down, going at a slow, steady pace. The delicious mix of _too tight_ and _just right_ filled him up and he closed his eyes, his breath coming in shallow blows.

“Fuck,” John breathed out as he took in more of him bit by bit until he was fully seated. They both stilled as they adjusted to the sensation. Sherlock breathed around the feeling, letting himself embrace the fullness. The discomfort subsided by the second, and pleasure began to flow through his limbs.

“You alright?” John panted, blinking at his face, and he nodded, shifting a little.

“Feels good,” he said, squeezing around him.

“Yeah?” John asked breathlessly, rocking his hips up gently. Sherlock met his eyes and smiled.

“Very good. Do that again.”

John happily complied. Sherlock met him halfway as he pushed down, canting his hips slightly, settling into a rhythm.

“Oh god, that's good,” John mumbled, his hands moving over his upper body. “So good.”

His eyes were fixed on his face. They locked with Sherlock's when he rocked his hips again, meeting him in shallow, exquisite thrusts, and Sherlock held his gaze until his eyes fell closed under the wave of the sensations filling him up.

“You like that?” John mumbled, pulling him closer by the hips to change his angle. “Does that feel good?”

Sherlock nodded with his eyes shut, moaning when John's fingers wrapped around his cock again. “John,” he whimpered, caught between the two sensations, shifting back and forth as he tried to get the most out of both.

“I've got you,” John hushed him, stroking him with a firm hold now, falling into a faster rhythm.

“I know,” Sherlock gasped. “I know you have, you always do, you're so... good... John, to me...”

He broke off as a loud moan escaped him. He cursed, blindly clutching John's shoulders. “I'm not going to last long,” he said, and John replied, “I know, love. That's okay, me neither.”

They picked up their pace by unspoken agreement, moaning in unison. The rhythm was delicious, hitting all the right spots, and Sherlock lost himself in the building pleasure. He only opened his eyes when John's breathing changed, blinking at his face.

“Sherlock,” John said with a breathless laugh, his lips curving into a smile when he met his gaze.

“Mh?”

“My legs are getting a bit numb, if we're going for much longer-”

“I won't take much longer,” Sherlock negated around a groan. “We can change positions, though,” he added as he got his breath back, gazing down at him.

John nodded. “On your back?”

“Yes.”

He lifted his hips, biting his lip when John slipped out of him. Then he rolled off him, settling on his back as John moved over him, sneaking between his legs.

“You're so beautiful,” he mumbled, and Sherlock hooked his legs around his waist, pulling him closer. John huffed out a laugh, taking himself in hand to bring the tip of his cock back to Sherlock's entrance. He pushed in smoothly, drawing a loud moan from Sherlock.

“Yes,” he said through clenched teeth, wrapping a hand around himself. John groaned.

“Yeah, touch yourself,” he panted, alternating his pace, shifting until he was at the right angle to hit Sherlock's prostate with every thrust. Sherlock threw his head back in pleasure as the shocks went through him, driving him closer to the edge.

“Oh god, yes, yes, like that-”

“So good,” John panted, thrusting into him, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “So gorgeous.”

Sherlock's arms wrapped around John's neck, pulling him in for a sloppy, wet kiss that had them both groaning.

“I love how you feel inside me,” he mumbled, staring into his eyes. “I love how you make me feel, John. You make me feel so good. It's so good.”

John beamed down at him, a brilliant smile that seemed to glow at the edges, and Sherlock couldn't help his lips splitting into a wide grin.

“You,” John said, nudging his cheek with his nose. “You have no idea how good you make me feel. All the time. My anchor.”

He drew back to peck the tip of his nose, and Sherlock giggled, relishing the warmth blooming in his chest at his words. John looked at him in adoration, joining in on the sound.

Their bodies moved together in such an appealing way that their lips met in a kiss naturally, complicated by the smiles still lingering on their faces, and then John changed up his pace, apparently determined to drive Sherlock over the edge.

Sherlock threw his head back, clutching at his body above him, surrounding him, filling him up. The closeness he felt when he was with John like this, the physical pleasure, everything swelled in him in form of the singular feeling he'd identified long ago, but never voiced in his presence.

“Love this,” he got out, “I, oh god, you- I, John-”

He moaned, his fingers digging into his flushed skin. “John,” he panted, arching his back when he reached the point of no return, “John, I-”

“Yes,” John said, chasing his lips before Sherlock got to finish the sentence. “I know,” he mumbled, sealing their mouths in a deep kiss. “I know, Sherlock. Me too.”

Sherlock let out a wrecked sound, something between a moan and a gasp, and John clutched him closer, holding him so tightly that Sherlock thought he could feel their hearts beating as one.

“John,” he murmured before a gasp escaped him, “John, John, John,” and with those words he spurted between them as his orgasm crashed over him.

The feeling did not subside; it only grew to new extents as the shocks ran through each of Sherlock's cells. The white, searing pleasure took hold of him, rendering him oblivious to the world for a few blissful, sacred seconds.

His chest was heaving when he returned to himself, the echoes of his own moans ringing in his ears, John half collapsed on top of him.

“You,” he said, his voice heavy with saturation, tugging on John's arm, but John just turned his head and gave him a loopy smile.

“I already finished,” he said, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “You were a bit gone from the world there. I came when you did.”

Sherlock frowned. “I didn't notice,” he realised, displeased with his own inattention. John just chuckled.

“I noticed that you didn't notice,” he told him, and the statement was so ridiculous that Sherlock just shook his head as he smiled.

“You're ridiculous,” he informed him, and John huffed out a laugh.

“Good,” he said lightly, tracing the shape of Sherlock's cheekbone with his thumb. “We can be ridiculous together, then.”

They grew silent as their heartbeats returned to a regular speed, neither of them willing to move. Sherlock knew that they'd grow uncomfortable soon, with John's now flaccid cock still inside him, but he couldn't be bothered to care.

“Don't move,” he mumbled when he sensed John moving to slip out. “Not yet. I just want a moment.”

“Alright,” John replied, smoothing his unruly hair from his forehead. “Whatever you need.”

He pressed his lips to his shoulder, holding him close. Sherlock let his hand slip into his hair, swallowing as the silence stretched, John's gentle hands caressing him endlessly.

He shifted eventually, allowing John to pull out. He felt the emptiness more than he should have, intensified by the cool air brushing his skin where John's heat had filled him just seconds ago. But John's arms were back around him as soon as he'd gotten rid of the condom, and the feeling subsided as he cradled him, pushed aside by the much deeper and significant sensation in Sherlock's chest. The one he'd almost named on the edge of orgasm, had almost spilled between them along with his release.

He would say it, Sherlock vowed when his body had come down from the fading high, wrapped tightly into John's embrace. He would tell John that he loved him, when all of this was over. When Mary wasn't looming over them like the sword of an executioner, ready to fall at any moment.

“You know,” John said into the quiet, ripping him from his thoughts. Sherlock could tell from his voice that he was far away. "After getting back from Afghanistan, I thought my life was over. I was so sure that I was done. And when everything... happened, with Mary, I sometimes wished I'd been right. I didn't want to have this life anymore.”

He took a deep breath, wetting his lips. “But then I met you, and I somehow got all that we have, and I can't imagine ever going back to- before. I don't know if it's fate, or God, or pure damn luck, but somehow I managed to find you, and that's- everything. Everything I never dared to hope for.”

The words cut Sherlock open like a razor blade, letting the deepest of his emotions seep out. He knew that he would never find adequate words, no matter how hard he tried, and so he just rolled over and kissed John like both their lives depended on it.

They ended up loosely curled around each other, their hands touching, their legs entangled. Sherlock kept turning John's words over in his head, gazing at him through his lashes.

“Do you believe in God?” he asked, and John looked up, clearly surprised by the question. “You said you didn't know if it was God who brought us together. It just occurred to me, I never asked if you were religious.”

John pursed his lips as he contemplated the question. “I suppose I am, to some extent,” he finally said, narrowing his eyes as he thought. “I'm not sure if there's a God. Not sure if I'd want there to be one, with all the crap that's happening in this world. But I think... I dunno, I'd like to believe that there's a point to all this beyond just living a good life. I'm not really religious in my everyday life, you know? I don't give much thought to it. But I kind of... turn to it, in a way, when I'm in need of guidance, I suppose.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in a silent question.

“When I was a kid and my parents were fighting, I prayed,” John explained. “When I got shot in Afghanistan too. The last thoughts I remember having before waking up in a hospital were 'please, God, let me live.' I don't pray with any sort of regularity, but I've done it, in the past.”

“Did you ever get any answers?”

John gazed at him from the side. When he saw no mockery in Sherlock's expression he supported his head on his hand, giving him a considering look.

“Not in the way I wanted back then, no,” he said. He paused only slightly before adding, “But I think I might have, now.”

Sherlock blinked at him in silence as the meaning of his words sank in. He opened his mouth to speak, but John rolled on top of him before he could say a word.

“You, Sherlock,” he mumbled, so close that his hot breath tickled Sherlock's skin. “I think you might just be the answer to all my prayers. The answer I never knew I needed.”

Sherlock stared at him for a second, and then John's lips curved into a gentle smile. He was serious, but they both felt too light for such heavy confessions.

“Oh, stop it,” Sherlock huffed, and John chuckled into his neck. “You're being ridiculous.”

“I'm serious,” he argued, and Sherlock smiled, but nodded once.

“I know.”

They were quiet for a moment, relishing the sound of each other's breath, and Sherlock decided that if John had made a sentimental declaration, he could make one too.

“I would like,” Sherlock began, his eyes on the ceiling, “to take you to London one day. When all of this is over. I could show you what I see when I think of the city, and you could take me to your favourite spots. We could discover new places together and make them ours.”

He paused. “You could meet Mrs. Hudson, she would love you. And Molly, she's there as well. Or that Detective Inspector I've been working with. Even Mycroft, although I'm not sure that's a desirable goal.”

“I'd like to meet your brother,” John remarked, rubbing gentle circles over Sherlock's belly. “Tell me more.”

“I would show you my favourite parts of the city, the ones that people never think about. I'd show you what I do, take you on a case. I know enough restaurants and takeaways to feed us for weeks. I'd show you all the parts you never even knew you were missing.”

A smile crept up on John's face. It would have been wistful on another day, but tonight wasn't for bleak realism. Tonight was for being together, being close, and confiding in each other their dreams of a better future.

“That'd be lovely. I'd love to see London again. With you, especially.”

John's eyes closed, and Sherlock moved his hand up and down his arm, adding more quietly, “Perhaps we could live together, in London. You wouldn't have to visit. You could just move into my flat and stay. It's a nice one, did I ever tell you? I think you would like it there. It's homely. It has Mrs. Hudson downstairs, she makes the best cakes.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You and I could be together, always. Properly. No more hiding. No secrets. I think we'd be quite happy, in that flat.”

John's breath was deep and even, warming Sherlock's chest where his head rested. John gave a low hum at his words.

“That,” he mumbled, tightening his arms around Sherlock's body, “would be really, really nice, Sherlock. We'd be very happy. I would love it.”

Sherlock hummed. Sensing the tiredness that made John's limbs heavier, he pulled the duvet over them both, pressing his lips to John's forehead. John smiled.

“Night, Sherlock,” he mumbled, his eyes already closed.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock replied, burying his nose in John's hair.

Committing every detail of the moment to memory, it was a long time before Sherlock fell asleep as well.

* * *

The next morning was much quieter. They woke up with their limbs entangled, sharing gentle caresses and close-mouthed kisses as they grew more awake.

They only got up when they had to use the bathroom, and Sherlock told John to go back to bed as he slipped into the kitchen to make tea.

There was almost an air of melancholy to it, Sherlock thought as he moved back under the covers after passing a cup on to John. They dragged out the minutes they had left until John reluctantly got ready to leave.

Neither of them spoke much, having said what mattered the night before – except the most important part, Sherlock reminded himself, but they would get to that. Later.

“If you don't text me that she's leaving earlier, I'll be ready as we discussed,” Sherlock said, wrapping a sheet around himself as he brought John to the door. John nodded.

“I've got the GPS. I'll let you know if anything changes. Otherwise I'll see you later.”

The GPS was from Mycroft, another favour Sherlock had had to ask for. If he lost sight of Mary, John would be able to locate her with the tracker.

Sherlock bent down, cupping his face for a gentle kiss that lasted a little too long for a simple goodbye. “See you later,” he said with a nod, and John gave him a small smile before leaving.

The flat was once again too quiet without John in it, and Sherlock shed the sheet and went straight to the shower. After getting dressed and eating a piece of toast between the kitchen and the living room, he went through the file on Moran again. He got up when he was through, gazing at the board on his wall in deep thought.

He didn't think they would see Sebastian Moran today. Maybe a spokesperson, although the chances of that were equally slim. But they were closer to him now than they'd been in months, even if all they got was a place Mary left something for him.

Even if it was a trap.

He was ready to leave hours before he had to, drumming his fingers on the surface of the table as he waited. His phone, laid in front of him, pinged at 3:37.

_[From: John]  
She's still here. I think she's getting ready soon_

_[To: John]  
GPS in place?_

_[From: John]  
Yes_

Sherlock got up and left the flat. He sent a question mark to John when he reached his street corner, concealing himself in a house entrance. John's text confirmed that she was still home.

Sherlock only had to wait for a few minutes before the door opened and Mary stepped outside. Her glance swept over the street briefly before she took off.

Sherlock wound through the people making their way towards him, careful not to let her out of his sight. He kept his face neutral in case she turned around, prepared to feign surprise. She never did.

Sherlock trusted that John was shortly behind him with the GPS tracker, not taking his eyes off Mary long enough to check his phone. She led him through increasingly less buys streets, causing him to let himself fall behind a little. He had expected her to take a cab or the tube at one point, but she just kept on walking.

Eventually they reached the industrial area nearby. She walked on, never once stopping to look where she had to go. Sherlock filed the observation away for later.

He stopped short when Mary made a sharp turn left, pausing for a slight moment before twisting the handle of a door to a shabby warehouse, disappearing inside. Sherlock stayed behind the corner, checking his phone for the time. Ten minutes to 4:45.

John caught up with him only three minutes later, stuffing the GPS tracker into his pocket. Sherlock's pulse sped up at the sight of him.

He tilted his head towards the warehouse, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock nodded.

“Do we go in?” he asked under his breath.

“Naturally.”

John's lips twitched, but he didn't let himself get distracted. “You go first,” he mumbled, reaching behind himself. Sherlock blinked at him when he produced a gun from the back of his trousers. “I'll give you cover.” He looked up, meeting his eyes. “Any questions?”

“I didn't know you had a gun,” Sherlock said. John quirked an eyebrow.

“Souvenir from the army. Ready?”

Sherlock nodded, twisting the handle. The lights were on, revealing shelves after shelves in narrow aisles. They went inside without a sound, checking the gangways of half-empty racks. The warehouse was abandoned, the thick layer of dust lay undisturbed as they moved forward. Sherlock held out his hand when he picked up on a sound. Footsteps. One person.

He crept forward, glancing around the final aisle.

Mary was standing in an empty space in the middle of the warehouse, her back turned to them. She was looking at something in her hands - a phone, Sherlock presumed.

He leaned in, holding his breath to hear better.

Mary sighed. Before he could try to make sense of it, she raised her head.

“You can come out now, John. I know you're here.”

Her clear voice rang loudly in the hall, echoing in Sherlock's ears. He heard John sucking in a deep breath behind him, freezing in place for a split second. Their eyes met, and Sherlock nodded slightly. John took a step forward.

“You too, Sherlock,” Mary added, turning around. Her eyes settled on his face, and Sherlock realised his error a second too late.

The item in her hands wasn't a phone. It was a gun.

Sherlock's thoughts came to an abrupt halt before toppling over themselves. _Stupid._ How stupid he'd been – not anticipating this outcome, not realising what they were up against, putting John in her shooting range --

Sherlock's mind was racing. There was a total of four ways out of the warehouse, one blocked by Mary, two possibly locked, the one behind them out of the question, considering the gun in her hand; none of the exit routes a safe option to get either of them- to get _John_ out of there unharmed.

Something else took over Sherlock, overriding the calculating, scampering thoughts. Something more basic, instinctive, that had nothing to do with rationality.

_Not him. Not him. Not him._

“What the fuck is this, Mary?”

John's voice cut through the building suffocation in his throat. He turned his head to the direction of his voice on instinct, but didn't take his eyes from Mary.

Mary's gaze drifted to John's gun, ready to shoot, before settling on his face.

“What are you going to do with _that?_ ” she asked, quirking an eyebrow. Sherlock bit his lip, hoping that John wouldn't allow her to provoke him.

Thankfully, he only shook his head. “I take it you're not here to meet Moran, then," he remarked, his voice dry.

He hadn't yet caught on. But the picture was getting clearer before Sherlock's eyes, the pieces coming together to reveal a sickening truth that finally, _finally_ made sense. Mary having chosen this warehouse for their confrontation, knowing the place like the back of her hand. Planting the obvious information on her laptop. Leaving Tallinn as soon as Chapman had dropped off the documents. Meeting them here with a gun, alone.

How stupid he had been, indeed.

Mary chuckled, shaking her head slightly. The gun in her hand didn't waver for a second, firmly pointed at John. Panic began to rise in Sherlock. She had just proven that she was much more unpredictable than he'd ever anticipated. John getting hurt was a real possibility, and the longer her attention was on him, the more likely it was that she would go through with it. The only thing Sherlock could think of was distracting her until he could come up with a plan. So Sherlock talked.

“You planted the information on your computer for us to find, didn't you?”

Mary hummed, looking at him. “I thought it was time that we met like this. Properly.”

“Quite so,” Sherlock agreed, tilting his head. “Sebastian Moran, I presume. My pleasure.”

He could tell the exact moment his words registered. John's gasp was boisterous in the echoing silence, and a wave of sympathy washed through him. He wondered what was going through his head, what he was thinking, but didn't dare look away to find out.

Mary, on the other hand, only smiled. “You were very slow, Sherlock. I thought you were good, but you've been stumbling around the edges of my legacy for months without getting anywhere.”

“Your legacy? Is that what you call it?”

“What would you call it? It's my life's work. It's an entire network I built up from nothing.”

“I think,” Sherlock remarked, “that I would call it identity fraud, blackmail, and on top of that multiple murder.”

To her credit, she didn't even bat an eye.

John made a small sound, catching her attention again. Sherlock risked a glance at him. He was shaking his head, staring at her as if he were seeing her for the first time. Their guns still pointed at each other.

“Morstan. Moran.” He laughed, the dry, humourless sound echoing in the quiet. “You were just having a laugh, weren't you? This whole time. Your entire life. Us, back then. That was just you having a laugh."

“Really, John.” She quirked an eyebrow, shaking her head slightly. “I wouldn't do it if it was just a joke to me. I'm _good_ at it. You get around. The thrill of it is... extraordinary.” She shrugged. “And it brings money. Keeps me in the business.”

“I can see that, yeah. And nobody ever realised. _How_ did nobody ever realise? How come nobody ever found you out?”

The smile on her face was terrifying. Deadly.

“Oh, some did, in the beginning.” She tilted her head. “They didn't live to tell anyone.”

The pointed look she gave him was clearer than any threat could have been. Sherlock itched to step between them, but he knew that any movements on his part would only endanger John more. And he could tell that John needed this conversation, needed to hear what she had to say if he ever wanted to move on from it. There was nothing to do but listen.

John sniffed. “But _why?_ I still don't understand. Why would you _ever_ do something like that?”

“Because I can. Because I love it. Yes, John,” she said, letting out a laugh that made Sherlock's skin crawl. It was too normal a sound, the danger she posed concealed behind it. “You might not see it, but I'm doing good. A lot of the people that died deserved to be killed. That's why there _are_ people like me. I know you always worried about that, killing innocent people. But nobody's really innocent.”

“That doesn't mean that they deserve to be killed.”

She shrugged. “If you say so. I disagree. A lot of people do. I know you don't understand, John, you never did, but the whole _world_ lies at my feet. Entire countries. Governments.” She tilted her head. “You, even. And none of you even know it.”

“So that's what I am to you, is it? That's what I've always been. Just another moron for you to fool.” He laughed humourlessly. “Charming. Really reminds me why I married you.”

Mary shook her head. “I do love you. That was never a lie. I love you, John. And that makes me no different than _him._ ”

She cocked her head towards Sherlock, and he could feel John's eyes flickering to him, his hands gripping the gun tighter.

“You fell hard for him, didn't you? Just what is it you see in him? A shoulder to cry on? A good fuck? Or is it true love? Don't tell me, I don't wanna know. It doesn't matter. Whatever it is, it made you weak.”

John huffed out a deep breath, shaking his head stiffly. Sherlock sensed the anger boiling in him, cursing his inability to do anything to calm him down.

“You're wrong.” John clenched his jaw, shaking his head again. “No, you got it wrong. It doesn't make us weak. We're stronger together.”

Mary raised an eyebrow, regarding him steadily. “ _We_ could have been strong together. We could have been so much more, if only you'd loved me like I loved you.”

John let out a hollow laugh. “You call that love? What you did to me, that's _love_ to you? You have no idea about love. None.”

She shrugged regretfully, but the movement seemed calculated, almost artificial. Sherlock found himself wondering if anything she'd ever done had been genuine at all. Sherlock could see the same question on John's face, could see him replay every smile, every laugh, every word she'd ever said.

"All's fair in love and war," she replied, her piercing gaze never leaving John. "And I couldn't lose you.”

John's lips curled at the words, but there was no joy in the lines of his face, none of the softness that seemed to take over his features when he smiled at Sherlock, _for_ Sherlock.

This smile made Sherlock's hair stand on end.

"Except it isn't, is it? Not all's fair in war, that's why the term war crimes exists. Because there are things you can't get away with, even when every other rule is off. And if you think you can do something like that to someone you _love-_ ”

His voice broke on the last word. The unfinished sentence hung between them for a moment in which Sherlock heard nothing but the blood rustling in his ears.

“And you expect me to believe that,” he finished, the words now devoid of any emotion.

Mary furrowed her brow. “I'm sorry, John." Her voice was soft. "Not for doing what I did. For not being able to keep you.”

The words, disturbing as they were, had a new ring to them that caught Sherlock's attention. There was an air of truth to them, something almost like regret.

They might have been the first genuine thing he had ever heard her say.

John snarled, “That's _sick._ ”

Mary's eyes narrowed, then moved to Sherlock. “I thought you might understand,” she said. “You're a bit like me yourself.”

Sherlock had kept quiet so far, letting John have control over the situation, but with that statement, both Mary's and John's eyes rested on him. John was breathing hard, and Sherlock thought that he might use the opportunity to compose himself. So he spoke.

“You're nothing like me. Because we might both love John Watson, but unlike you, I would never point a gun at him. You love yourself more than you love him. You'd hurt him just to keep him by your side. I love him enough to want what's best for him. What he decides is best for himself.”

The echo of his voice rang in the silence. Sherlock was acutely aware of John's presence by his side, the look in Mary's eyes as she spoke.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she said, her face twisting into a horrific smile. Her voice was too soft, too gentle. “Don't you see? I'm not pointing the gun at him. Not really. What good would that be?”

And in a swift motion she shifted her hand ever so slightly to the left, too quick for either of them to grasp it. By the time Sherlock realised that she was now aiming at him, she'd already pulled the trigger.

The pain didn't register. He remembered her eyes boring into his as the bullet ripped through him, remembered the rigid face that didn't even twitch as she tore him apart, but nothing else got through.

“No!”

The scream was gutting. Deafening. Sherlock wasn't sure who was the one screaming. John, it must have been John, but surely he couldn't make such an awful, wretched sound-

“If I can't have you, neither can he.”

Mary's voice cut through the haze forming in his mind, followed by the barest second of ominous silence.

Then, a second shot.

Sherlock didn't see who got hit. Sherlock was already falling backwards.

The ground shifted beneath his feet as his body gave in to the impact. The last thing he remembered was the echo of John's scream, ringing in his head over the deafening bang as he hit the ground with absolute finality.

Sherlock's eyes fell closed. Darkness tugged at him, bled through him, pulled him under until there was nothing.

Nothing remained.

 

* * *

_End of Part II_


	11. Part III: London, England

The insistent beeping of a machine was the first thing he noticed. Consciousness returned to him gradually, dragging him from the layers of heavy, drug-induced sleep.

The beeping got louder and faster the more Sherlock focused on it. Air was being pushed into his nostrils; he wasn't breathing freely. Something didn't feel right, like his body was off somehow, but his mind was clouded, too hazy to make sense of it.

He opened his eyes, immediately shutting them again at the glaring lights greeting him. He blinked several times until the brightness didn't blind him anymore before he could take his surroundings in.

White walls, half-drawn curtains. An electrocardiogram and an infusion bag, both connected to his body. A nasal oxygen cannula. He'd spent enough times in hospital rooms to know when he was in one, only that this time he didn't know why he was there. He hadn't overdosed again- had he? No, he was clean, he'd been clean for several--

He tried to swallow around the dry lump of his tongue in his mouth, wincing at the pain of his strained throat.

“Here,” said a voice from his right, and Sherlock blinked as it registered that he wasn't alone, turning his head with great effort. “Drink.”

There was a cup at his mouth and a hand supporting his head, allowing him a few sips of stale water, half of which ran down Sherlock's chin. The cup disappeared from his vision and he was gently guided back onto the pillow. Sherlock turned his head farther.

Mycroft was sitting on a chair next to him, his attentive eyes fixed on his face.

“What-?” Sherlock croaked, flinching at the sound. Mycroft retrieved the cup in case he needed it, but didn't hand it to him.

“You're in London,” he said, waiting until Sherlock's eyes focused on him before he continued. Sherlock only noticed the shadows under his eyes now, the loose curl falling into his forehead, the knits in his suit.

“You got surgery at a hospital in Berlin before you were transferred here via helicopter. You've been going in and out for a while now. You were shot close to the heart two days ago.” A pause. “Do you remember what happened, Sherlock?”

The beeping – his own heartbeat, Sherlock realised now – made it hard to make out the words, filter their meaning.

“I was- there was-”

He inhaled sharply when the images of his last memories returned to him, gasping for air as panic threatened to choke him. John. The gun, the gun pointed at John, then at him, then another shot- he hadn't seen it, hadn't--

The beeping heightened along with Sherlock's apprehension, one feeding off the other. Mycroft threw a worried glance at the door.

“Stay calm, Sherlock,” he said, and for once his quiet, even voice made Sherlock listen. He latched onto it like a lifeline, coercing his thoughts into an order he could articulate.

“Where's John?” he got out, forcing the words past the pain in his throat. “There was- second shot, is he-”

Mycroft's expression changed into something that was almost gentle, and that was worse than after the overdose, worse than every time he'd seen him after a high, worse than when Redbeard had been put down. This was sympathy. This was _pity_. It was a sharp knife being pushed into Sherlock's insides, slicing him open until he was inside out.

“An anonymous caller phoned an ambulance,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock struggled to follow his words. “You were alone in the warehouse when they arrived. There was nobody there, Sherlock. There were no traces of anyone else. They found no body.”

It didn't make sense. Sherlock couldn't understand. His mind stagnated at the words, refused to put two and two together. They were merciless. A death sentence. _Once you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable..._

If John hadn't been fatally wounded he would have been here, by Sherlock's side. Because that's what he'd said. We are stronger together. 

John wasn't here. Mary wouldn't have left the body to be found, of course not, she would have cleaned up after herself, she would have-

Mycroft stood from his chair to press a button next to the bed. Sherlock let him.

He didn't protest the nurse talking to Mycroft as though he weren't in the room. He didn't protest the needle she injected into his infusion bag, didn't protest the heaviness of chemically induced sleep pulling him under.

Because John wasn't there, and what was the point of him being awake, being alive, when John wasn't?

When the darkness engulfed him again, he was grateful.

* * *

Recovery was a slow, dreadful process. The hole in his chest was clean, the bullet hadn't gone through. The metal had been removed and he was all stitched up, but his body took time to heal.

The doctors removed the nasal oxygen pump, then the cables of the electrocardiogram, then the infusion drip. Sherlock slept, and when he didn't sleep, he wished that he could.

He refused any additional medication, gritting his teeth through the pain as he turned the morphine supply down. It seemed important, somehow. Or it had, to an old version of himself, and so he fought through the waves of want, focusing on the pain rather than the yearning, teaching himself to breathe around it until he didn't feel like it was drowning him anymore. Until he could breathe _through_ the pain, allowing it to ground him, make up his entire being until he only existed inside the hurt.

He got better.

The wound closed up, stretching uncomfortably as the skin grew back together beneath the stitches. It was slow, so terribly slow, but it improved with time. And Sherlock had nothing but.

He released himself from hospital two weeks later at his own risk. He could tell that Mycroft disapproved from the curl of his lips, but he did not say anything, and Sherlock wouldn't have listened anyway.

Baker Street was busy as it always had been when Sherlock returned. Speedy's was opened when Mycroft's car pulled up before 221b, greeting him with the familiar image of strangers occupying the pavement, sipping their coffees or reading the news.

Mrs. Hudson was out when he arrived, and Sherlock was glad for the moment to himself. Mycroft had given her a brief account of what had happened, but Sherlock knew that she could tell within a second of looking at him that there was more to it. That Sherlock was a changed man, having lost something that couldn't be replaced. Seeing the realisation in her eyes would have been more than Sherlock could handle.

He climbed the steps to the upstairs flat slowly, listening to the familiar sound as he turned the key in the lock.

He was home.

He stood in the doorway to the flat he hadn't been to in months, eyes moving over the dusty furniture without seeing. He swallowed. The sound seemed too loud in the silence of the rooms. He felt like a stranger in his own house, an intruder, like he didn't quite belong here anymore, or maybe never had.

He took a step forward, closing the door behind him to let himself sag against the hard wood.

He was home, and nothing was as it should be. As he'd wanted it to be. The most important thing, something that had never been here in the first place, was missing, leaving everything else out of place too. 

Sherlock's eyes swept around the room. He could see himself in the cluttered shelves, the scrapes on the wooden floor, the displaced table in the living room. It was like looking at an old photograph; he knew the person he was seeing, recognised it as part of his past, but he was a different man than he had been, and the other version was far away, out of reach. Nothing but a shadow that was futile to chase. The flat was full of shadows. A different person had lived here.

He didn't know if he could be that person again. He didn't know if he wanted to.

His fingers brushed the wallpaper as he went inside, the familiar roughness a marginal source of comfort.

Knowing that sitting at home would drive him to a point he did not want to face, Sherlock decided that he was fit to go back to work.

Detective Inspector Lestrade gave him a surprised look when he showed up uninvited at a crime scene for the first time since his return.

“Oh, what are _you_ doing here? Last I heard you were running around in Germany somewhere.”

“I'm back.” Sherlock's eyes swept over the restricted area. “Will you let me see the crime scene?”

Lestrade let him. It was good to have his mind focusing on something else than the ever-present thoughts in his head for a a change. But the case was too easy and the thrill failed to take hold of him as it used to, before. Sherlock walked Lestrade through the solution only a few minutes later, feeling his mind turning back in on itself. He lingered around the scene for a few more minutes, aware of the curious glances Lestrade was giving him. He'd never stayed after solving a case before.

In the end, Lestrade's eyes on him became too much to bear. Sherlock stood abruptly, ready to leave. Lestrade's voice made him falter in his steps.

“Wait. Christ, look, I don't mean to intrude or anything, but you look like shit. Are you alright?”

Sherlock stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat to conceal his clenching fists. He went home with the bitter taste of his unsaid answer in his mouth.

He returned for another case two days later, followed by another, followed by another. Eventually he stopped following Lestrade around, because Lestrade started calling him when there was something he could help with.

Sherlock wasn't getting better.

The wound had healed, but the flesh was still raw underneath, pulsing, like a deep bruise that just wouldn't fade.

In the end it was exactly the way it had been before: Sherlock left in John's wake. Sherlock left with the pieces of what others broke as they came and went and took, and took, and took. He'd been foolish to believe that this would ever end in a good way. He'd known that it was an addiction from the first time they'd kissed, and addiction never, never changed. And Sherlock was an addict to the core, willingly seeking out what would ultimately ruin him, embracing it, even. He would lick a sharp blade clean just to catch every drop of honey.

Foolish.

They'd been playing with fire, John and him. Pretending that their being together was something that could last. That the happiness they'd experienced wasn't fragile enough to break at the slightest disturbance. It had only been a matter of time until one of them got burned.

Only that Sherlock hadn't expected a conflagration.

After the fire, after being left with the ruins of the life he'd tried to build for himself, Sherlock got by. But he did not get better. He was constantly fighting his own mind trying to rip itself apart, torturing him with memories and cravings he couldn't satisfy, and those that he could, if only he gave in. It was him against himself in a never-ending battle.

A silent war, Mycroft had called the situation in Tallinn before he'd even gone there. Sherlock hadn't known what to make of that, back then. Now he did. Now he understood that those were everywhere he went.

He knew they weren't always political, not at all. Mary had taken it all around the world, declaring war to individuals and companies, entire governments. He knew that Mycroft was fighting several wars on a daily basis, pulling strings from the background. John and Mary had fought one, mastered to perfection in their very own house.

Now Sherlock had one inside him, fighting against the world, against life, against his own mind tearing itself to pieces. Now he had mastered the art, too.

Sherlock had never been social, but the list of people he could stand having around was short now, even for his standards.

He let Mrs. Hudson feed him from time to time. He accepted Lestrade's awkward questions when he called him to a crime scene, forgiving his lack of eloquence because he did not know what to say either.

He endured Mycroft's frequent visits, let him check whether the wound was healing, whether he was still clean. Sherlock had thrown out the painkillers along with the prescription on the day he'd returned home - he _was_ clean. At least for now.

He had yet to write to Molly to explain his radio silence.

He felt like he was seeing the world through a mirror; the images were clear, but he couldn't get close enough to touch, to feel. He was cut off from the world he'd previously been part of, as unable to connect as he was loath to even try.

The mirror shattered on a bleak morning almost a month after Sherlock had returned home. It was an ordinary day, with nothing to worsen his mood, nothing to indicate that today would be the day he'd lose his grip on the last bit of control he had.

His violin didn't sound quite right. Annoyed, Sherlock tuned the instrument before testing out the sound.

Still wrong.

He lowered his bow to adjust it once more before giving it another try. Again, the sound he wanted didn't come out. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He held the bow away from the instrument with one hand, moving to tune the violin again with the other.

A string snapped.

Sherlock stared at the violin in silence, a multitude of emotions crashing over him as something inside him seemed to break open violently. His hand twitched.

The bow hit the wall before he even realised he'd thrown it. The resulting clattering was anticlimactic, not satisfying in the slightest. Sherlock stared at the lone piece of wood as if in trance. He loosened his clammy fingers from his violin, dropping it before he could hurl it at the wall as well. When his hands came up to his face, they were shaking.

Sherlock sank to the floor, pulling his knees to his chest in a feeble attempt to comfort himself. His hands kept shaking. The rest of his body soon followed.

The string had opened the gates he'd kept shut so carefully, but it was all the brutality of a life lost that brought Sherlock to his knees now.

John, who had embodied light and life and everything good Sherlock had ever known; music, and sweetness, and soft and silky touches of a tender body.

John, who was now gone. And Sherlock would never see him again. Would never get to see his eyes crinkle in fondness again. Would never hear his laughter again. Would never feel the gentle touch of his hand on his skin again.

Gone.

Maybe Sherlock hadn't deserved better. But John had. He had.

Sherlock took a deep breath around the expanding pressure in his chest. For the first time since his eyes had opened in the hospital, he surrendered to the magnitude of the grief lapping at him.

The German word for graveyard, a part of his mind supplied, was _Friedhof._  Peace yard. Whether the peace was intended for the people left behind or the ones dead in their graves, Sherlock didn't know.

It didn't make a difference to him. Maybe it would be different, if John's remains were in a graveyard where Sherlock could visit them, but he didn't really believe it, and it didn't matter anyway. There was no grave for John Watson. There was no peace for Sherlock Holmes. For either of them, dead or alive, gone or left behind.

The room went dark around him. Sherlock was still on the floor. His body hurt, sore from the unyielding wood and the cold wall against his back. He listened to Mrs. Hudson returning from the shops downstairs, the ticking of a clock somewhere in the room, his own blood rustling in his ears. His legs cramped. The street lights partially illuminated the room, casting shadows and silhouettes on the wall. Sherlock watched it for a long time.

He got up only when his bodily needs couldn't be ignored any longer, dragging himself to the bathroom. He hadn't eaten in hours, but the thought of food alone made him sick. He didn't return, instead going straight through to the bedroom.

The room was hauntingly quiet as he lay down, pulling the duvet over him. The rustling of the sheets ebbed away into silence.

Sherlock didn't sleep.

* * *

The idea of turning back to the cocaine became less of a last resort and more an appealing option with each passing day until Sherlock found it impossible to fight.

It had been there ever since he'd woken up in the hospital with morphine being pumped into his body at regular intervals. It had not left when he'd thrown out the painkillers. It had stayed, silent, persistent, ever-present at the back of his head. It had grown, become a solace, a beacon of hope, a way out.

Mycroft, of course, would know as soon as he shot up. He would drag him back to rehab, maybe lock him up for good this time.

Sherlock didn't care. If he got his hands on cocaine, he might not be there to be locked up at all.

Sherlock stopped this train of thought. There was a place in his mind he couldn't go to, not if he wanted to return.

 _Want._ Did he want to return? He didn't. In fact, he wished that he wouldn't.

But John would have wanted him to. And the only thing he could do, would ever be able to do for John, was to try and honour his memory, for what it was worth.

Which was nothing, the voice in his head provided.

John was gone. He had vanished from the world, from Sherlock's life, from his own. He would never know what Sherlock did with the rest of his time, however long or short it might be.

It was a harsh truth, one Sherlock couldn't bear to actively contemplate, like directly looking into the sun, but it was still the truth. A series of facts, leading to but one conclusion. Irrevocable, definite, final facts: John had ceased to exist. He existed now only in Sherlock's memory.

No matter how insignificant that existence was, Sherlock couldn't kill him there, too.

He did the only thing John would have wanted him to do that he was still capable of.

Mycroft didn't look surprised to find Sherlock at his front door.

"Sherlock," he stated in greeting.

“I think I'm going to overdose,” Sherlock said.

Mycroft stepped aside, holding the door open in silence. Sherlock went in.

Mycroft's house was familiar in a strangely comforting way. Sherlock counted the number of books in his study to distract himself from the longing in his chest.

Mycroft put a glass of scotch down in front of Sherlock, settling in a chair opposite him. It was a long time before either of them spoke.

“Did you purchase any cocaine since you returned?”

“No. As you know.”

Mycroft was silent, slowly turning his own glass around in his hand.

“I'm glad you came here, Sherlock. Really, I am. You know I'll always be there for you.”

Sherlock stared at the table. He took his scotch and sipped at it only to have something to do. Mycroft wasn't waiting for an answer, he just watched him. His next words, spoken into the stretching silence, made Sherlock look up.

“You loved him.”

There was no judgement in his voice, no curiosity. It wasn't even a question, merely a statement, a definite fact they both knew to be true.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.”

Mycroft bowed his head. “I am sorry for your loss, brother.”

Sherlock's eyes were on his face. Mycroft returned the look until Sherlock lowered his gaze. “Me too,” he said, his voice sounding all wrong.

Mycroft peered into his glass as he spoke. “We have our best people on the search for Mary Watson, or whatever name she uses for herself now. We will find her, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn't say what he thought to himself: that if he hadn't been able to catch Mary, then nobody else would either. If she did not want to be found, she wouldn't.

It made no difference anyway. No punishment in this world could avenge John's death adequately. There could be no justice for the crime she'd committed. It could not be rightened.

They sat in silence for the better part of an hour. Sherlock knew that he was keeping Mycroft from his work, but there was a certain comfort in his quiet company, and he didn't want to be alone tonight. Not with the desire to shoot up until he blacked out still eating at him from inside. He nursed his scotch until the glass was empty, then accepted the refill.

Eventually his eyes grew heavier. His feet were curled under him and he folded himself together, letting his head sink against the armrest. He closed his eyes, not waiting for sleep, but rather a thoughtless state.

Mycroft stood, heading for the door. Sherlock opened his eyes again, watching him move around the room. His hand lingered on Sherlock's shoulder for a brief instance as he passed him. He stopped in the doorway, half turning his head back.

“The upstairs bedroom is yours. Stay as long as you want.”

He moved to start walking again. Sherlock swallowed. “Thank you.”

Mycroft stilled. He nodded briefly, then left him to his own thoughts. Sherlock heard him moving around in his office for hours yet, working well into the night. He never said a word about it.

Sherlock stayed at Mycroft's house for ten days. He was alone during the day and subjected to his watchful eyes during the night, but he never left, knowing that a step out of his house would carry him straight to the next dealer.

The craving stayed. The craving got worse. Sherlock thought that he was going out of his mind. Sherlock thought that he was going to kill himself, if only to make the yearning stop.

The craving subsided.

Sherlock returned to Baker Street more exhausted than he'd left, but less unstable, too. The rooms were still quiet as he stepped inside, but it didn't seem to haunt him now.

Now it was just silence. And silence could be filled.

_If it itches, you have to scratch somewhere else._

Sherlock picked up his violin, holding the bow in his hand for a long, breathless moment before bringing it to the strings, playing the first note. And he played. And played.

He didn't know that he'd decided on this exact piece until his hands were already carrying out the movements. He didn't falter when the warmth ran down his cheeks in wet trails. He didn't stop playing until he'd mastered the piece, the room having gone dark around him, and his fingers felt as strained as the rough patch in his chest.

He was hurting so much that even drawing a breath was a chore. He was also alive. Terribly, rawly alive.

This, this he could do to remember John. Because this was him in his essence. The song Sherlock had played was the one he'd chosen for them, that would always be theirs now, for as long as Sherlock remembered.

He would remember. For John. Always for John.

* * *

September was a dire month. Autumn arrived in full force, tousling hair with its whistling winds and biting every inch of exposed skin. Sherlock only walked with his coat collar turned up, a silky scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He was outside so much that the sound of the wind became a familiar tune in his ear.

Sherlock had taken to walking around London when he wasn't on a case, exploring the deepest unknown corners. Sneaking into places he wasn't supposed to be in wasn't an uncommon occurrence. He wasn't worried about getting caught; he was too good for that, and he knew that Lestrade would get him out of any trouble, should it come to that. 

Sometimes he found places he filed away to later tell Molly about. He'd written her a short account of what had happened a while after his stay at Mycroft's, in a fit of determination to stop surrendering to the clawing emptiness inside him.

The following three exchanges had been trying, but she seemed to understand that he couldn't talk about it. She insisted on keeping in touch after that, but they moved on to other topics. He'd even gone to see her in the morgue she now worked in, enduring a hug that had lasted a near minute before being rewarded with access to various body parts. It was nice, in a way.

When Sherlock wasn't walking through the streets or on cases, he was devoted to the violin, alternating between playing and composing. He never named the pieces. He never finished them. He didn't think that they could have an ending.

Sleep eluded him completely when it didn't pull him under for days on end. The rhythm was uncomfortable and tiring, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock wished for a healthy sleeping pattern.

That was new.

It was one of the changes he'd noticed in himself over the course of the five months he'd been back in London now.

Doing nothing had seemed impossible before, with unbearable boredom constantly looming over him, but now there were days when he found himself unable to even move. Usually loath of repetition, he now played the same pieces on the violin in endless repetition, allowing himself to drown in the sounds, to feel as close to John as humanly possible.

But the changes weren't limited to his habits. Sherlock himself was changed, too. Where before he'd only shown incomprehension and indifference in the face of love and kindness, he now understood. He'd taken a case way below his usual work, to give a woman the chance to be with the woman she loved. He agreed to Mycroft's increased invitations for dinner, still getting annoyed during them, but finding a twisted sort of solace in the feeling.

Apparently he had friends now, if only between Molly and Lestrade. Two more than he'd had before.

That was all John's doing. John had changed him, and Sherlock had been completely powerless in the face of it, hadn't even noticed until he was already transformed.

The resulting change would have been that much more satisfying if John had been there to see it, too.

Sherlock wanted to think that he'd had a similar effect on him. That, in the short time he'd had left, Sherlock had changed him in ways he couldn't understand, just like John had done to him. He couldn't hope for having changed him for the better, like he'd done with Sherlock, but he clung to the glimmer of hope that he'd caused _something,_  a shift, a difference in his life, however small it might have been.

The difference in Sherlock's life was immeasurable.

* * *

Lestrade came over after a case one night. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, weary of the questions he could see in his eyes every time he looked at him. They never came.

Instead he brought takeaway and two beers with him, both of which he drank on his own. Sherlock took a bite of the spring rolls though, and a look of satisfaction crossed Lestrade's face at that. Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes.

“This case,” Lestrade said when he was done eating, “was a downright mess. The kind of bad that reminds you how dark it can get. You don't really wanna go home alone after one like that.”

His words only confirmed what Sherlock had already seen from looking at him. He could read him like a book. “Your wife cheated again. She moved out only recently, you're not used to the solitude yet. You live on your own now.”

“Yeah. I do.”

“Why don't you go visit a friend after work then?”

Lestrade gave him a look. “That's what I'm doing, mate.”

Sherlock blinked. “Oh.”

Lestrade gave a half-shrug. “I just thought that you might not wanna get home to an empty flat after that either. Don't know how it is for you, but it's always harder for me to deal with the things I've lost, on days like that. Sometimes company helps. You can be an arse, yeah, but you're our arse.” He lifted his can of beer. “So. To friends.”

Sherlock averted his eyes after a moment of consideration, staring into the fireplace. Lestrade was quiet beside him, but the stillness wasn't oppressive, nor was it agitating. In a way, he supposed, it was companionable.

“John,” Sherlock said into the stretched out silence. “His name was John.”

Lestrade only looked at him, nodding once. “I'm sorry,” he replied, then returned his eyes to his beer. He took a sip to indicate that the conversation was done if Sherlock wanted it to be.

“Don't be,” Sherlock said, watching the flames dance. “It wasn't your fault.”

They developed a habit after that night. It wasn't with any regularity that Lestrade came over, but it happened often enough to almost be considered a routine. Whenever a case was bad enough to shake either of them, he'd show up with a bag of takeaway and a six-pack he mostly drank on his own. On rare occasions he showed up without a reason, too. Sherlock accepted it.

The enjoyable part about spending an evening with Lestrade was that he didn't talk if it wasn't welcome (which he had a surprisingly good sense for, but Sherlock supposed that years of being trapped in a failing marriage did that to a person), and so he could still be by himself, just not on his own. The shared solitude was comforting, and the late nights spent sitting together warranted a bonding that could only be described as a strange, backwards sort of friendship.

Sometimes when they sat together like that, Sherlock offered a bit of information on John. What he'd been like, what they'd shared. Sometimes he was quiet. Lestrade never asked for more than he was ready to give, and he never pushed him.

Maybe that was what made it easier. Talking about him hurt, in the best and worst way Sherlock could imagine. It was draining, and sometimes Sherlock thought that it was impossible to get the words out, but it was also impossible _not_ to talk about him because, in a twisted sort of way, it felt like killing him again. So he talked whenever he could.

It wasn't moving on, because it couldn't be. It was a truth Sherlock felt in his bones, unshakable and non-negotiable. The day he moved on from John was the day he died. But it was relief, remembering him like that. A small fracture of blissful, soothing relief, mixed with the constant hurt in a sharp duality that never quite let him rest.

It was the most there could be for Sherlock, these days.

* * *

The morning was so bleak that hardly any light got through the curtains. The wind howled loud enough for Sherlock to listen to, one ear pressed to the pillow, the other covered by the duvet. It was a perfectly ordinary Tuesday. Sherlock didn't want to get out of bed.

This wasn't an unusual occurrence. Sherlock waited for another few minutes, marked by the ticking of his clock, before he willed himself to get up. He draped the sheet over himself before leaving the bed, scuffing into the kitchen with a yawn.

There was a cup of tea in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson had taken to doing that every morning, a small sign of her affection towards him. Sherlock touched the cup; still warm. He sipped on it, breathing against the heavy sensation in his chest weighing him down. The tightness wasn't real. There was nothing pulling him under.

Telling himself that didn't help the feeling. The tightness did not cease. That also wasn't an unusual occurrence.

Sherlock put down the cup and slipped into the bathroom. The water of the shower was hot enough to burn him. Ironically, the thick steam allowed him to breathe in deeply for the first time that day.

He stayed in the shower for a long time. There was nothing waiting for him outside anyway.

He still checked his phone once he got out and dressed himself. No cases from the website. No mail from Molly. Lestrade had texted him with a case last night, but Sherlock wasn't about to leave the house for a regular homicide. It hardly ranked as a six on his measuring scale.

Sherlock accepted his fate and snatched his violin, plucking at the strings before starting in the middle of a composition he'd worked on the night before.

The day crept by.

Sherlock read for a while, and then he paced the room, and when he got tired of the same four walls passing by him, he slumped into his chair with his laptop, opening the file with his study of tobacco ash.

There was a ring of the doorbell. Sherlock ignored it.

The distinction of different types of ash was difficult, but could prove to be vital in his field of work. Sherlock had already conducted various tests on 97 different types of cigarettes, and he figured that he would end up doing over 240. This knowledge could help him prove the truth or lies behind alibis. Most people stuck to the tobacco brand they preferred. Should someone have a distinctive preference, finding the according ash at a crime scene could be enough to convict them.

The doorbell rang again, screeching in Sherlock's ear, and he let out a deep exhale, feeling agitation rising in him. He pushed himself up from his chair to open the door.

Once, during a particularly intense high, Sherlock had started seeing things that hadn't been there. Entirely muddled in hindsight, the images had seemed perfectly clear at the time. The beetles crawling over him, evoking a strange mix of fear and fascination. Mycroft looming over him, talking in a language Sherlock hadn't understood. Redbeard chasing around his legs, licking his palm with his rough tongue.

He hadn't hallucinated again after that, under influence or otherwise. He'd wondered, back in Berlin when he'd been in much the same position, only less broken, less damaged, whether he'd been imagining the person at the door.

A horrible sense of deja-vu befell him now, and for a split second Sherlock was sure that he was hallucinating, even without the drugs. Maybe he'd shot up and didn't remember. Maybe the past months had just been him losing it and nobody had even realised, least of all himself. Because what he was seeing couldn't be real. It couldn't, every cell of his body screamed at his mind to stop conjuring the illusion, because there was absolutely no way that this was not made up.

But the image was too clear, too devastating in its realism. And Sherlock knew, he knew that his imagination wasn't that good.

“Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock's knees nearly gave in at the sound. “Can I come in?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was challenging. I find grief and heavily emotional scenes difficult because I feel like I tend to overdo them. I'm still not sure if I got this chapter right, but I tried my best. I would love to hear your thoughts and/or concrit!


	12. Chapter 12

They ended up in the living room somehow, but Sherlock couldn't recall how.

His mind was in an uproar, tearing itself to pieces in the attempt at agreeing what he knew couldn't be true and was yet seeing before his very eyes. His chest felt too tight, every breath he drew hurt as the air tried to push past the multitude of emotions raging in him. Sherlock couldn't even begin to name them, make sense of them. It was betrayal. It was against everything Sherlock had considered to be true. It was everything he'd wished for, and it hurt in a way he'd never felt hurt before.

The edge of his vision was slightly blurred.

“Sherlock,” John's voice distantly got through to him, and he realised that he'd been saying his name for a while now, looking at him with concern.

“I don't understand,” Sherlock said. His own voice sounded wrong to his ears. “John. I don't understand.”

It seemed that all he could do was repeat himself. He shook his head, trying to force his brain back into functioning.

“Sherlock,” John began, effectively catching his attention. “I will explain. I promise you, I'll explain everything. I'm so sorry.”

“You tricked me,” Sherlock said hollowly, the words tumbling from his mouth through the haze. John's face twitched in a flash of hurt, and that wasn't fair, it wasn't, because John didn't get to be the hurt one in this situation. He didn't get to slip back into the hole he'd carved into Sherlock's chest so easily, making him want to cradle him until the pain ebbed away.

He didn't get to wreck Sherlock with so devastatingly little effort, standing there with his brow furrowed and his lips pressed together, shattering the foundations of the walls Sherlock had built around himself.

“Please,” John said, stepping forward, “Sherlock, let me-”

His hand came to rest on Sherlock's arm, the touch shocking Sherlock with its familiarity. A flash of pain shot through him, electricity and yearning, desire and anger all at once, and it was too much, it was more than Sherlock could deal with. He jerked his arm away.

“Let go of me,” he hissed.

John drew his hand back as if he’d been burned. The loss of contact didn’t feel better; it was worse.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, trying to breathe around the tightness in his throat, attempting to clear the complete blankness in his head. Eventually his focus narrowed down on the basic instinct that was churning his stomach, spreading in his limbs until every one of his cells felt ablaze with it; the need to touch, and be touched in return. To reassure himself that he hadn’t conjured an image of what he desired most, what his body knew was the one thing that he craved every second of every day, had yearned for ever since that fateful day in Berlin.

John kept his distance, regarding him with a careful, pained expression, and Sherlock could see the same raw desire in his features, sitting in the lines of his face.

The anger evaporated at the sight.

A sound escaped Sherlock’s lips, a foreign, hurt noise he didn’t identify as his own, and without consciously deciding on it he stepped forward, clutching John to his chest as he pulled him into his arms.

John let out a broken sound. His arms immediately wrapped around him, pulling him so close that all the air left Sherlock’s lungs, but he couldn’t care less. John was flesh and blood in his arms, breathing, responding to his touch, tangible and alive and _real_ , and Sherlock didn’t realise that he was sliding to the floor until he was on his knees, gently supported by John’s careful hands on his elbow, his waist, guiding him into a sitting position. He was distantly aware of John making sounds, humming to him, hushing his harsh breathing as he cradled him to his chest, was distantly aware that he was apparently hyperventilating, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except for John, who was here against all logic.

Sherlock raised his head from his chest, blindly reaching for John's face as he crushed their lips together. He moaned into the kiss, half in pain, half in pleasure, and John's hands slipped to his face, gripping him tightly as he kissed back with everything he had.

“How can you be here?” Sherlock asked when they broke apart, shaking his head. “John. I thought you were dead.”

“I'm so sorry,” John whispered, brushing his thumbs over his cheekbones so tenderly that Sherlock had to close his eyes to bear it. “Forgive me. Please, Sherlock, forgive me.”

And Sherlock, for the lack of a better response, leaned in to kiss him again.

This kiss was gentler, though no less desperate than the first one. It was weeks and weeks of separation on John’s side, and months of grief on Sherlock’s. It was all the pain they’d endured apart, all the words unsaid that had haunted them at night, all the things they’d had to hold back, and Sherlock wasn’t surprised to find his face coming away wet when they parted. John’s finger brushed his cheek, chasing the wet trail on his skin.

“I thought about you,” he said, his voice unsteady, “every minute while I was gone.”

The words rang a bell, echoing in Sherlock's mind from the first time they'd reunited, that joyous moment on the doorstep of his Berlin flat. Back when they'd only just gotten to know each other, when neither of them had been marked by death the way they were now. Back when everything had been so much simpler, even if he hadn't realised it at the time.

“I am so sorry,” John continued, and Sherlock blinked at the tone of his voice, sounding like a miracle, like an absolute wonder, “for all the pain I caused you.”

His forehead was creased as he looked at him, holding his gaze despite the pain Sherlock could see lingering in his eyes. “I will explain everything, if you let me. But I need to say this first. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I never wanted to hurt you like this, you have to believe me. But everything I did, I did for you. All I wanted-”

His voice broke and he took a sharp breath, visibly collecting himself before continuing, “All I ever wanted was to come home to you. If you let me.”

Sherlock swallowed, forcing a few deep breaths into his lungs. His eyes locked with John's, who seemed to wait for his permission. He wouldn't force this on him, Sherlock realised. If he didn't want to hear it, John wouldn't tell him. They would do this Sherlock's way.

He ran a hand over his face before letting his eyes settle on John. Then, nodding slightly, he said, “Explain.”

“From the beginning?”

“Yes. Tell me everything.”

And John did.

“I don't know how much you remember from that warehouse. When Mary- when she pointed the gun at you, I was too slow. I should have seen it coming, but I didn't. I didn't react fast enough. When she pulled the trigger and you- you fell, I couldn't- I was terrified, Sherlock. I was scared to death. I don't know if you remember or even heard it, you were out by the time I got to you, but- I shot her. Didn't even think about it. The only thing on my mind was you, and the blood coming out of your chest.”

He swallowed. “She aimed right at the heart. I was so scared that you wouldn't make it. I tried to stop the bleeding, but I couldn't. Those were the worst minutes of my entire life, Sherlock. I was terrified that you'd bleed out before the ambulance got there.”

The words rang a bell. “Mycroft said that someone called an ambulance,” Sherlock remembered. He'd always assumed that it had been someone who had overheard the shots. It should have been a clue. He should have _realised_. Stupid. Slow.

John nodded. “That was me.” He cleared his throat. “I tried to talk to you while I waited, but you were unconscious. Mary was already dead. I wanted to stay with you, I wanted- tearing myself away from you in that moment was the hardest thing I've ever had to do, believe me. But.”

He sniffed, blinking at him. “I remembered what she'd said, before she shot you. Her network. I knew some of those people she'd meant. I knew that there was information on them on her laptop. She was dead, but that didn't mean that she didn't pose a threat to us anymore. To you, should you survive.”

He gave a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and Sherlock swallowed as he realised how hard that situation must have been for John. He had almost lost Sherlock, too. He hadn't known whether he'd survived either.

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. “You thought that someone would come after us?”

John nodded. “I didn't know if she had some sort of- insurance. I looked at you, bleeding out on the floor like that, and I thought to myself that if you somehow survived, I couldn't leave your life in danger like that. I couldn't let her hurt you again, not after everything she's done to us. So I picked myself up, and I forced myself to walk away from you. Tried to convince myself that that wasn't the last time I'd ever see you.”

He stopped talking when he saw Sherlock's expression, raising his eyebrows in a silent question.

“They found no other body,” Sherlock said with a frown.

John pursed his lips and looked away. “I disposed of it.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “Alright.” He cleared his throat. “Go on.”

He watched John's throat working as he swallowed. “Well, ah, I went home, grabbed Mary's laptop and a few things, and then I was off. I dismantled her network bit by bit until there was no one left I knew of who could hurt us.”

He cleared his throat. “It wasn't pretty, but I knew that, going in. I just didn't know it would take me so long.”

He raised his gaze, giving Sherlock a half-smile as he caught his eyes. “I looked you up on the Internet, while I was away. Your website updated a while after- that day. So I knew that you'd pulled through.” He swallowed again. “Which meant that there was a sense in what I was doing. There was something to come back to, once I was done. Something I was doing it for.”

Sherlock blinked, sucking his lips in as he absorbed John's words. “What did you do, all this time? Where were you?”

“I looked for her contacts, gave the police anonymous tips when I knew something. When I didn't, I pretended that she'd sent me and stayed close until I had enough to get them behind bars. Um. I was mostly in Eastern Europe, but a few other places, too. Did some work right there in Berlin. Then it was Russia, Scotland, Turkey, Poland, Ukraine. Even the States, once. Alaska.”

Sherlock nodded, casting his eyes to the ground as he contemplated his next words. “You never once contacted me. Why didn't you? You never said a word. I wouldn't have needed more. If you'd let me know you were alive I-”

He broke off, swallowing tightly as he tried to keep his composure. John looked pained.

“I wanted to, Sherlock. God, you can't imagine how much I wanted to. I nearly did, so many times, but I knew- I _didn't_ know, if anyone was onto me. I didn't know who to trust, not until I'd checked the last person off my list. Which was only two days ago. I came here as soon as I could. Found your address on your website. There was a phone number, but I thought- well, I don't even know what to say in person to make it alright. But I had to give you at least that, even at the risk of you punching me before kicking me out on the street.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes again, saying nothing. The words kept swimming in his mind, making it hard to think. He wanted to not think for a while. He wanted to stop the endless spinning until he'd gathered himself, until he knew what to make of everything he'd just been told.

He felt strangely exhausted, hyper-aware of the hard floor uncomfortably digging into his flesh. He had just witnessed the impossible, caught in the eye of the storm as it tore everything around him to pieces.

But the storm had passed, and now Sherlock was standing in the devastation. The intensity of the emotions had left behind nothing but a hollow echo. Sherlock needed to pick up the pieces before he could attempt to put them back together.

He raised his gaze to John's face, taking in the deep lines, the defined shadows under his eyes.

“You look terrible.”

John cast his eyes to the floor. “I'm exhausted.”

Sherlock nodded brusquely, like that settled it. “The upstairs bedroom is made. Take it.”

John looked up, a flicker of hope in his eyes as he glanced at him. “You want me to stay?”

Sherlock drew his brows together. “Of course I want you to stay. I thought that's- if you want to, that is.”

“That- that would be good, yeah.” John cleared his throat. “I don't really have anywhere else to go.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock said. “You always have somewhere to go.”

John swallowed. “Alright, yeah.” His voice broke on the last word. Sherlock stood abruptly.

“You should rest,” he declared, giving him a long look before averting his eyes. “There's still time in the morning.”

There was a beat of silence.

“Sherlock-”

“Please, John,” Sherlock cut him off, gripping his own waist tightly as he pressed his arm to his stomach. “I need- time. We will get to everything. I'm not kicking you out, of course I want you here. But please, just- give me time.”

“Anything,” John replied immediately, looking like he could cry from sheer relief. “Whatever you need. However long it takes until you can forgive me.”

Sherlock nodded once, then headed for his bedroom. He sat on the bed, listening to John moving around in the kitchen before slipping into the bathroom. He went upstairs soon. The floorboards only creaked for two minutes as he settled in the room before silence took over.

Sherlock stared at the wall of his bedroom, his uneven breath drowned out by the blood rustling in his ears as the minutes passed. The situation grew more absurd the longer he thought about it, and he pinched his arm, twisting the skin to have something to focus on. His heart beat heavy in his chest, pounding against his ribcage until he had to calm his breathing, telling himself that he hadn't made the evening up.

The silence engulfed him, making it impossible to think rationally, and suddenly John felt a world away. With the knowledge that he was upstairs, just out of reach, the feeling was unbearable.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to his bedroom without making a sound. The door creaked when he opened it, then stepped inside the darkness of the room. He moved close to the bed, blinking at John's relaxed face for a moment before climbing onto the mattress, crawling under the covers with him.

“Sherlock?” John mumbled, his voice concerned despite the heaviness of sleep. Something in Sherlock broke at the sound.

“I forgive you,” he whispered into the dark, clutching John close. His hands came up to Sherlock's back, drawing soothing patterns, and Sherlock let out a choked sound. “I forgive you. John. Of course I forgive you.”

John's breath was the only sound in the room for a long moment. Sherlock buried his face in the fabric of his shirt, inhaling so deeply that John's smell blocked out everything else.

“Thank you,” John said quietly, rolling onto his side to pull Sherlock closer. He pressed his nose into Sherlock's hair, kissing the top of his head as he breathed in.

They stayed wrapped around each other for endless minutes, drawn out in the darkness of the room. John's skin felt silky and warm. The heat of his body engulfed Sherlock until he thought he could breathe freely again.

“Stay,” he mumbled into his chest, “don't go. Please stay.”

He felt John's nod more than he saw it. “Never,” John promised. His lips touched Sherlock's forehead, a warm, comforting press. “I'm not going anywhere, love.”

Sherlock shifted. Their lips found each other, brushing together in a kiss that felt like pure agony and sweet relief at the same time. Sherlock couldn't bear it. He couldn't stop.

They kissed in the dark of the room, their hands clutching each other, listening to each other's breath and the sound of their bodies, the rustling of the sheets. They stayed close when they parted, their breath mingling, and it was all Sherlock could do not to lean in and kiss him again until he suffocated.

Time, he reminded himself. They needed time, and they _had_ time. Plenty of it. An impossible amount, a whole future, as opposed to the bleak nothingness he'd been so sure of only hours before.

Sherlock noticed John drifting off again as he thought. He kept himself still, giving him the rest he needed.

John fell asleep again within minutes. Sherlock watched him until the light crept in through the windows. He left before John woke up, quietly deciding that he would never spend a night without him if he could help it.

John looked better than the day before when he came downstairs. He gave him a tender smile, but did nothing save for a gentle squeeze of his shoulder as he walked past him in the kitchen.

“Tea?”

The question was so familiar and so typically, utterly John, that Sherlock couldn't help but smile. His heart pounded funnily in his chest.

“Please.”

John sat down opposite him once the kettle had boiled, putting two plates on the table. Sherlock watched him eat his toast, struck by the sudden realisation that this was the first time John was having breakfast at Baker Street, at Sherlock's- at _their_ flat, now.

This was what Sherlock had wanted most in the world. To be with John, to share the domesticity they'd gotten a taste of in Berlin, the life they hadn't dared to dream of in Tallinn. And, he realised with a surge of exhilaration, he was getting it now.

John looked up when Sherlock stood, raising his eyebrows as he leaned over the table. He looked completely surprised when Sherlock took his face in hand and kissed him, a little harder than necessary, barely managing to return the warm, insistent press of closed lips.

He retreated as abruptly as he'd attacked him, sitting back down. John swallowed the rest of his toast, blinking at him for an unmoving moment. His lips curved into a smile. Sherlock dropped his eyes to the table, his own lips responding in kind. He reached for a piece of toast himself. John's smile stayed.

The day consisted of shy touches and lingering gazes as they orbited each other, getting used to the other's presence again.

John unpacked the single bag he'd brought with him, making himself at home a little hesitantly. But, Sherlock noted with a thrill, he _did._ They hovered around each other, not quite touching, not quite managing to stay apart altogether.

Sherlock kept his distance despite the buzzing need to touch inside him, not quite understanding why, and John didn't push him. When he sat on the sofa, he left enough space for a third person between them. When Sherlock went into the kitchen, he only moved to sit in his chair. When Sherlock disappeared into his bedroom, he didn't follow.

Sherlock wanted John to touch him. He knew that he had brought this upon himself when he'd asked for time, that John would never make the first move now because that wasn't what John Watson would do, but he wasn't sure whether he could still ask for the things he wanted so easily. He wasn't sure if he knew how anymore.

That night, long after they'd had dinner, Sherlock watched John over the rim of his cup before getting up.

“I'm going to bed,” he announced. John looked up, nodding.

“Okay.”

“Are you coming?”

John looked stricken. “Into your bed?”

“To sleep.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “If you want to.”

“Of course,” John said, shaking his head as a smile spread on his lips. “God, yes, of course.”

“Good.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “That's- yes. Good. Come on then.”

John huffed out a quiet laugh, but shut his book and got up. They brushed their teeth side by side. John went upstairs to change into his pyjamas – highly impractical, Sherlock decided, they would have to move his clothes downstairs – and then joined him in bed. He settled in, lying closer to the middle than his side, but didn't touch Sherlock.

“This okay?” he asked, gazing at his face, and Sherlock rolled onto his side, wrapping his arm around John's middle.

“Now it is, yes.”

John was quiet for a beat. Then he took his free hand into both of his, bringing it up to his face. He pressed soft kisses to each of his knuckles, barely brushing his skin, giving Sherlock the opportunity to pull away.

Sherlock allowed the touch breathlessly, his heart in his throat.

“You can kiss me,” he said when John was done, his voice croaking slightly. John blinked up at his face.

“Yes?”

“Yes.”

So John did. He leaned in, nudging Sherlock's cheek with his nose. He just breathed for a moment, until Sherlock grew breathless under the almost-touch. He shifted closer and John finally gave in, putting his lips on his in a tender brush. It was the barest pressure, the sweetest contact, and Sherlock melted under the touch. His lips parted and he lifted his head off the pillow, pressing against him. John brought a hand to his cheek, stroking his thumb over his skin as they kissed.

Though they licked into each other's mouths, learned their taste again, the kiss stayed gentle. John was the one who drew back, his chest heaving as his head sank onto the pillow. Sherlock, loath to stop the touch, followed him, brushing his lips again, allowing himself to deepen the kiss before it inevitably had to end.

When he retreated, John opened his eyes. He smiled up at him, brushing a loose strand out of his forehead.

“Good night, Sherlock,” he mumbled. Sherlock settled in by his side, their bodies touching from head to toe. His arm slipped around his middle again.

“Good night, John.”

He listened to the sound of his breathing, evening out as the minutes passed. Tiredness gnawed at him too, and he closed his eyes, letting sleep take him.

He woke up a while later to John's fingertips dancing over his skin, brushing his cheek, stroking his hair. A few hours must have passed, but the room was still dark. He could just so make out John's silhouette, the shape of his eyes.

His gaze fell on his face and Sherlock knew that he knew that he was awake. His caresses didn't falter, and Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling nothing but the gentleness for a moment, threatening to crash over him like a high tide.

He still wasn't used to it, no matter how long he stared at John during the day, his brain was still convinced that he would wake up the next day and all of that would be gone. That his grief was still necessary and valid, and that the touches were nothing but an illusion.

He shifted slightly, rolling over until he was a breath away from John's face. John tilted his head up in a silent invitation and Sherlock closed the distance between them, sinking into the taste of his mouth. The sounds of their lips parting and meeting again filled the air, Sherlock's head, his entire body. He heard his own breathing growing heavier. John responded in kind, threading his fingers through his hair non-stop. Sherlock's throat felt tight. He found no other word for it; under John's gentle touch, he felt loved.

The sheets rustled as Sherlock moved, bringing one leg over John's body as he rolled on top of him. John's hands came to his hips, equally holding and caressing him, and Sherlock bent down, bringing their lips together again. His hands gripped John's face, tousled his hair, marvelling at the texture of his strands. They slid lower to his shoulders, smoothing over his chest, digging into his sides. John's hands rested on Sherlock's chest, occasionally brushing his neck, caressing his jaw.

Sherlock broke the kiss only to sit up and drag his shirt over his head. Letting it fall to the floor he leaned in again, burying his face in John's neck, kissing a trail there until John was panting into his ear. The tentative touch of his warm fingers to his chest drew a hiss from Sherlock. His own hands travelled down, pulling the hem of John's shirt up.

John arched his back, pulling the fabric over his head. Sherlock guided his shoulders down again, following him to kiss every inch of his chest he could reach. 

He licked stripes over his skin, nuzzled the fine chest hair, sucked his nipples between his lips, and John's gasps were music to his ears, a symphony long forgotten, never truly appreciated. He moved lower, kissing the softness of John's stomach, noting with a start that there was less than before. He caressed the flesh all the more for it, nuzzling every inch before he reached the trail that led him lower.

His fingers played with the rim of John's trousers, not quite slipping beneath it. John bucked his hips after a moment, allowing Sherlock to pull the fabric down, letting it fall off the bed in a tangle. His pants followed, and Sherlock settled between his legs when they fell open. His hand brushed John's hip, teasing at the sensitive area of his groin. He mouthed at the inside of John's thigh, nuzzling the warm flesh, feeling his soft hair on his face. He sucked a gentle bruise where his hip and thigh connected, soothing it with a brush of his lips right after as he revelled in the hitch of John's breathing.

His lips travelled farther over his skin, turning to his cock. He was fully erect, waiting for Sherlock to touch him. Sherlock didn't want to touch.

John gasped when he mouthed at the base of his cock, gently brushing his lips over the hot skin. The flesh was silky and inviting, filling his nose with the smell Sherlock loved so dearly, that he recognised as uniquely John's. The desire to taste him, to have him fill his mouth burned through him, and he nudged him with his nose, rubbing his lips over the skin.

He did not ask about tests, lingering at the base of his cock in a silent question, giving John the opportunity to stop him. But John did not stop him, and Sherlock would trust John with anything. That was all the answer he needed.

He shifted his head, licking a wet stripe up John's cock, cataloguing the texture of the silky skin with his tongue. He hovered over the tip, exhaling deeply as he teased him with his breath. John swallowed audibly and Sherlock lowered his head, putting his lips on his cock in the impression of a gentle kiss before opening his mouth, taking the head in.

John's moaning was loud in the silence, resonating down Sherlock's spine with perfect clarity. He dragged his lips down, licking over the slit at the top with his tongue. He stayed where he was, giving the head his thorough attention. Once he'd explored the taste and texture he began to suck, revelling in the sensation of John's hot flesh on his tongue, filling him up.

John's breath came in quick puffs. His thighs shifted, falling open even wider. Sherlock eased off, licked up the side with his flattened tongue before taking him into his mouth again, sucking as he pushed his head down lower.

John's groaning was addictive, like music, like a perfect, imperfect melody. His hands hovered near his head, not quite settling anywhere, and Sherlock reached out to guide one to his head, humming encouragingly when John lightly threaded his fingers into his hair.

John's breathing changed at the vibrations. Sherlock reached out to take his other hand, lacing their fingers together. John squeezed tightly, and Sherlock ran his thumb over the back of his hand. He'd fallen into a gentle rhythm, working John's cock with licks of his tongue and light suction. Taking a deep breath, he bobbed his head lower, pushing him in deeper before easing off again. John was groaning, his hand in his hair twitching. Sherlock repeated the motion, sucking harder around him as he felt John responding. The taste of precome filling his mouth was exhilarating, clouding his mind with triumph and pleasure.

The minutes bled into each other as he swallowed John down, pushing him closer and closer towards the edge. The room was quiet save for the sounds of his actions and John's accelerated breathing, the occasional rustling of the sheets and the low hums Sherlock made around his cock. The intimacy of it – of having John's cock in his mouth, an act that proved trust and being trusted in equal measure, of being entirely in control of and the sole reason for John's pleasure – was so heavy that Sherlock could taste it, could feel it on his skin like a thick cover. It was tangible. It wrapped around him, around the two of them, separating them from the world until there was nothing but them.

Sherlock could tell when John got close from the copious amounts of wetness leaking into his mouth, the way his balls tightened. He was ready to suck him through it, willing even. But John pulled his hair a moment later, guiding him away, and so Sherlock drew back, letting John's cock fall out of his mouth with an obscene pop. He brought his hand to his slick erection instead, nuzzling his balls.

It only took three rough tugs, the way he remembered John liking it when he was close, and then he was spilling between them, covering Sherlock's hand and his own stomach. Sherlock kissed his thigh, felt the tremble of his muscles beneath his lips as his orgasm took hold of him before ebbing away.

He only stopped his gentle strokes when John softened in his hand, kissing along his hip and stomach. His own arousal, pushed to the back of his mind up until now in favour of giving John his pleasure, ached with the need to be handled. The fabric of his pyjama trousers was wet.

John's touch was on him before he even got the chance to ask for what he wanted, needed. He was guided up by gentle hands, then pressed down until his back hit the mattress. John rolled over to support himself on one elbow, seeking his lips in a deep kiss before he climbed half on top of him.

His hands tugged on his trousers, pulling them down with his pants in one fluid movement. He was mindful enough to take Sherlock's sticky hand between his gentle fingers, wiping it clean with his pants before dropping them off the side of the bed. Sherlock loved him for it. He loved him so much, and there weren't enough words in the entirety of the English language to tell him.

He lifted his head off the pillow, catching his lips in another kiss. John shifted until he could sneak one hand between them, taking Sherlock's aching erection in a firm hold. He kissed Sherlock again when his mouth fell open, swallowing the sounds he was making as he fell into a delicious rhythm.

And oh, he remembered what Sherlock needed. He remembered, too. Sherlock's panting mixed with John's, covering his mouth and jaw in kisses as he worked him, and Sherlock lost himself in the touch of his body, finding something better.

They did not talk, but they said so much through their silence, their tender touches, that Sherlock felt like he was brimming with it.

His climax took him only a few minutes later. He was too keyed up to hold on, and he did not want to. John held him through it, stroking him in time with the waves of pleasure flooding him. It was almost too much and not nearly enough. It was, simply put, everything.

Sherlock tugged on him as soon as he could breathe again, wrapping himself around his body so tightly that both of them had trouble breathing. Neither of them said anything.

John's lips pressed against his temple, a gentle hand weaving through his curls. The room smelled like sex and like them and like John, and Sherlock buried his face in his hair until John was the only thing he knew.

Wrapped up in each other, around each other, they fell asleep.

* * *

They adjusted to each other again, one day at a time. There were soft, deliberate brushes from both sides now. There were sleepy smiles and goodnight kisses, shared meals and lingering gazes in the bathroom mirror. There were cuddles on the sofa, the shared bed at night, two cups of tea whenever the kettle boiled. There was intimacy, and re-learning, and applying what they already knew. But still John didn't touch him in that way unless Sherlock initiated it.

John was trying to regain his trust, Sherlock knew. The thing was that he didn't need to. He'd never lost it, not really. Sherlock realised that now, living with him again after months of thinking that he'd lost that forever. The trust John was trying to earn had never been gone. Sherlock would trust him with his life. He always had, and he always would. But he also trusted him with his heart. Still. Even now, after having it broken into pieces, he would put it in John's hands again. Was already doing so. If anyone could put the pieces back together, it was John. And he did. Despite his own heart being in much the same state, as Sherlock realised gradually.

It was a little over a week after John's return that Sherlock woke up in the middle of the night, the other side of the bed deserted. The sheets were cold and empty when he reached out to touch them. There was a distant light coming in through the slit beneath the door. Sherlock sat up, running a hand over his face before pulling the duvet back.

The floor was cold beneath his feet. Sherlock opened the door with a slight creak, padding into the kitchen. John was sitting at the table, a cup of tea untouched before him. He looked up at the sound of Sherlock's footsteps. The circles under his eyes were dark, but he smiled when he saw him.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, fine. You?”

“I'm fine.” Sherlock pulled out a chair, sitting down opposite him. “Why are you up?”

John shrugged a little, his eyes on his cup. “Don't really want to sleep yet, 's all.”

Sherlock's brows tightened. “Are you having nightmares?”

“Yeah.” He looked up, giving a small smile. “It's fine. Always had them. Just became a little more frequent, since- after Berlin.”

Sherlock blinked. He wanted to ask what John dreamed about, but something held him back. He'd had nightmares too, after John had died. They'd been nonsensical and deeply disturbing on a level he didn't quite understand himself, and the thought of having to talk about them alone put him off.

And John knew that he could talk to Sherlock, if that helped. Or Sherlock hoped that he did. They'd learned that, if nothing else. Silence brought shadows with it, ghosts that sneaked into the cracks of their lives and filled them with doubts, fears, things that had no place between them. They were always better off talking to each other.

“You can wake me,” he said into the quiet. “When you're having nightmares. I want to help.”

John blinked at him, his lips curving into a tender smile. “I think you already are,” he replied, his hands curling around his mug. “It was worse before I got here. So far, at least. You're... yeah, you're helping. I probably just need some time.”

Sherlock held his gaze, nodding once. The ticking of the clock nearby seemed to grow louder when they fell silent again. John's fingers tapped his mug as he looked ahead without seeing. Sherlock's eyes stayed on him.

He still found it hard to believe that he was here, and the image of him sitting at the kitchen table at three in the morning had an air of surrealism. Sherlock let his eyes move over his features, the greying strands of his hair and the curve of his shoulders. He was real, Sherlock realised with a start, flesh and blood and breathing half a metre away from him.

This was their second chance. How many people got one of those? They'd gotten lucky. Sherlock wouldn't allow the shadows to get in again. He wouldn't let this be destroyed by staying silent when there were things that needed to be said.

“Actually, no.”

John glanced up at the sudden words. “No?” he repeated, frowning.

“The answer to your previous question. No, I am not fine. Or rather, I wasn't for a very long time. And I think it will take a while to convince myself that I can stop feeling that way now. That it's- over. I'm better now, John. Much better. I'm happy that you're here. But that doesn't mean that I'm fine yet.”

John swallowed, nodding as his eyes fell on the table.

“I suppose that's fair. I _am_ sorry, for what it's worth. I hate myself for what I did to you. But I had no choice.”

“You saved my life,” Sherlock pointed out quietly. "So many times. In so many ways."

“Yes.” John inhaled deeply. “But I promised that I'd never hurt you. Do you remember? In Berlin, I gave you that promise, and I meant it. I really did.”

Sherlock remembered. His stomach prickled at the memory.

“But I didn't know what we were up against. I had no idea what was going to happen. I broke that promise, and I can't take that back, and I'm sorry for that. But I'd still do it again. Everything, the last few months. All of it. To keep you safe, I'd do anything.”

He swallowed, letting go of his cup to put his hands around Sherlock's, squeezing tightly. “So now I can only make you this promise, and it's not nearly enough, but it's all I have to give.”

He inhaled deeply. “You have me. You'll always have me, I'll always be yours, and I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe and make you happy. If you want me, then I'm yours.”

“Always,” Sherlock repeated softly, leaning in to gaze into his eyes. His heart was pounding in his chest, heightening the surreal sensation with every beat. “That's a very long time.”

“I won't settle for anything less,” John said, determined. His jaw was set, his eyes alert and honest.

He meant it. Sherlock knew that he meant it. But he had to make sure, just so he had said it, just so it was absolutely clear, that John understood with perfect clarity.

“You can never leave me again. Never. I won't be able to handle it a third time.”

John swallowed, nodding once. “Neither will I.” He cleared his throat, raising his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, clearly thinking.

“You know, for such a long part of my life, I had no choice. I stumbled into that train wreck of a marriage, and from then on my hands were tied. You were the first thing in a long time that made me feel like I could make a choice again. Even though I still couldn't when we met. But that part of my life is over, Sherlock, for good. I'm free to make a choice now. And I choose you. I'll keep choosing you, for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock opened his mouth, halting before he spoke. John waited patiently for him to sort out his thoughts.

“I believe you,” he finally said, “of course I do. But I need to know that you're sure about this. In the long run. Because I mean it. Never. I can't go through that again.”

“I _am_ sure. I am. I would go through every nightmare, every minute on the run, my entire marriage again if it meant that I got to spend the rest of my life with you.”

Sherlock frowned, lowering his eyes to their connected hands. “You shouldered so much for me,” he said quietly. “So much. And now you still suffer because of it. You could have lived a life without this.”

He raised his gaze again, needing to see his reaction. John met his eyes steadily. “That would have been a life without you, and that's not a life I'd want to have.”

Sherlock took a shaky breath, his throat suddenly tight.

“How can you still- John, you did this, you went through all that because of me. _For_ me.”

“For us,” John corrected, shaking his head once. “For me, too. If these people had ever caught me, they could have ended me. If they'd ever caught me with _you_ \- and mind you, I was planning on getting back to you as soon as I could – they would have killed us both. I had to do this, Sherlock. For both of us. But I don't regret it. Look what I got as a reward.”

He reached for Sherlock's hand, lacing their fingers together. His thumb brushed the back of his hand. Sherlock swallowed.

“Was it really worth it, though? You went through all that, and for what? For someone who needs reassurance when I should be- I don't think it was worth it. All this, you-” He gesticulated towards John. “I don't think it was. I'm sorry.”

John looked stricken. “Oh, no. No, no. Don't say that. You can't really believe that.” His fingers tightened around Sherlock's, and he cupped his cheek with his other hand until he would meet his eyes.

“Listen to me, love. Nothing in this world is more important- more precious, more valuable than your heartbeat. Nothing, Sherlock. And nothing matters more than the fact that I'm here with you, that I'm alive and allowed to _feel_ it- without having to fear for your safety every day. Well, unless you're doing one of your weird experiments again.” Sherlock smiled weakly at the attempted joke.

“I'm serious.” John's voice was low. All traces of lightheartedness were gone when he spoke again. “I'd do it all again. In a heartbeat. I'd do it five times over if it meant I got to be with you like this. To have you alive and safe. The world's a better place with you in it. And I'm better, too. I'm better for having known you.”

Sherlock's chest contracted at the sincerity. He drew a painful breath.

“That's what I'm supposed to say,” he mumbled, his voice rough. John smiled and Sherlock looked at him, with his dishevelled hair and ratty shirt and the lines on his face that hadn't been there when they'd first met, and he loved him, god, he loved him.

“I love you.”

He hadn't planned on saying it - it wasn't even the first time, really, it had been out in the open since Mary had drawn it out of him in that warehouse so long ago. He said it now without thinking about it, said it because it felt right, because it was true and because John needed to know.

John's smile grew wider. He got up, pulling Sherlock up to meet him in a crushing kiss.

“I know,” he murmured when they parted, blinking at him to search his eyes. “And I love you too. I regret nothing.”

Sherlock took a deep breath. “Okay.” John put his head on his chest, rubbing circles on his back as they held each other in a tight embrace.

“Never forget that, love,” John mumbled against Sherlock's skin. “Never doubt it.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, breathing him in.

“Come to bed,” he asked, leaning in for another kiss before John could reply.

“Yes.” John nodded, brushing a curl from his forehead. “I'm coming, love. Always.”

Sherlock stilled. A smile spread on his lips, one he couldn't contain, couldn't hold back any longer.

“Always,” he repeated, brushing John's hand. “I like the sound of that.”

“Yeah,” John said, switching off the light as he followed him into the bedroom. “Me too.”

They settled under the duvet in the dark, the sheets now cold from their absence. John rolled close to Sherlock, initiating the tight embrace for the first time, and Sherlock pressed his toes against his shin, seeking his warmth.

“You still have icy feet,” John said.

“Shut up.”

John kissed his nose.

“I really love you very, very much,” he muttered, giving his lips a lingering kiss before drawing back.

“The feeling is mutual,” Sherlock said, wrapping his arm around his waist. “It's really very mutual.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Since someone brought my attention to this: medical inaccuracies show my own lack of knowledge, not John's lack of devotion to Sherlock. He kept pressure on the wound right until the ambulance arrived. He did everything he could for Sherlock.)


	13. Chapter 13

“Oh god, yes, like that.”

“Like this?” John asked with a grin, deliberately slowing down his movements.

Sherlock groaned. “ _John._ ”

John's shoulders shook with silent laughter. “Sorry, love. I'm just teasing.”

“I know.” Sherlock dug his fingers into his shoulders, a surge of satisfaction rushing through him when John gasped. “Get on with it.”

“Yes, your majesty,” John murmured, bending down to nibble his neck. Sherlock let his head roll to the side, moaning at the sensation.

“Faster,” he mumbled, and this time John complied, falling back into a rhythm that was just a little too quick for lazy, exquisite in its friction.

The morning light fell through the windows, casting a bright gold over John's features. Sherlock stared up at him like he was in trance as his pleasure built, marvelling at the sight he made for, at the fact that he got to touch and feel him as he pleased.

“I love you,” he said, because he could, because it needed saying, even when it didn't.

John's face softened into a tender smile. He slowed down, leaning in to put a sweet kiss onto his lips. “I love you too,” he replied, his smile growing wider when Sherlock chased the touch as he drew back. “Want me to finish you?”

“Please,” Sherlock said with a nod, wrapping his arms around him as John picked up his pace again. “Before Mrs. Hudson comes up and interrupts us again.”

John huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice slightly breathless, “wouldn't want to scare her like that. She's been nice enough, accepting my staying here like that.”

Caught up in the fact that John was alive and well and also at Baker Street with him, Sherlock hadn't left the flat in days as he'd come to terms with this new reality. It was a sign of his complete occupation with other matters that he'd neither anticipated Mrs. Hudson coming upstairs to check on him after almost three weeks, nor heard her footsteps on the stairs when she did.

John and he had been on the sofa, engaged in lazy snogging that was on the brink of becoming not-so-lazy when she'd knocked, entering before they'd even had the chance to break apart.

Her face had been quite priceless.

“Shit,” John had mumbled the same moment Mrs. Hudson had exclaimed, “Oh, goodness! Sorry, boys, I thought it was just you, Sherlock. I didn't know you had someone over, with you barricading yourself in here.”

The accusation in her voice had been tangible. “It's alright, Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock had said, sitting up to smooth his hair. His shirt was crumpled where John's hand had been slipped under it seconds ago. “Please forgive my omission. This is John, John Watson. He lives with me now.”

The look on her face at the mention of his name had called for tea, and a good hour later, having been told about the struggles John had went through to get back to Sherlock, she'd already taken him into his heart.

“She's quite smitten with you,” Sherlock agreed. “If the number of times she's come up since meeting you to bring _a little something_ is any indication. Now, if we could stop talking about our landlady and focus on the matter at hand, that would be splendid.”

The last word turned into a moan when John thrust into him again, and they both fell silent as the sensations of their bodies moving in unison overtook them. John wrapped a hand around Sherlock's erection, his thumb brushing the wet tip as he smiled down at him.

They didn't speak a lot after that, besides the occasional instruction and moaning of the other's name as the pleasure of their rhythm built steadily.

John was breathing hard, his hand twisting around Sherlock's cock expertly as he brought him to completion, his own orgasm following not long after.

They knew each other by heart in the bedroom, inside and out. Outside of the bedroom, though, they were still getting to know each other in an entirely different way.

They'd lived together before, but this was the first time that they were doing so officially. Free of all restrictions, of everything keeping them apart. Free to learn each other again, to know what a real relationship between the two of them contained.

It was, Sherlock found, quite exhilarating. They hadn't seen much else than the flat so far, too caught up in each other to bother with the outside world. 221b had become their haven, the epitome of their togetherness, and the feeling only grew as the days passed.

Where Sherlock had before felt that the flat had become foreign to him, it was now a place of familiarity and love, a safe space that he could breathe in freely. Where the empty rooms had been full of shadows, they were now filled with light. 221b Baker Street was irreversibly, unmistakably home now. More so than it had ever been.

John filled the flat with life. He filled it when he cooked on the odd day that they didn't order takeaway. He filled it when he bustled around the bathroom in the mornings, when he sat in his chair with a book, when he napped on the sofa, or when he came to stand behind Sherlock, pressing a kiss to his back as his arms wrapped around him. He also did it when he woke up sweating in the middle of the night, sometimes crying out, the images of a nightmare still vivid in his mind. He did it when he sat on the sofa rigidly, staring at the wall without seeing, a crease so tight on his forehead that Sherlock worried it would never leave again.

Sherlock loved those parts, too. Even if they were difficult. Even if they were hard to see, if they brought out his own demons too.

They were learning how to deal with it. All of it. Because those bits may be hard, but they were part of them, belonged to them as much as every smile or kiss they shared, and Sherlock embraced it, all of it, every detail.

The ugly parts stayed, but they were small, a minor piece of the bigger picture. The good parts grew. And they grew. Every day.

It was like they'd known each other for their entire lives, and were only getting familiar with each other at the same time.

It was what allowed them to be open with each other, to be almost brutal in their honesty, and know that it wouldn't change a thing about how either of them felt, that it would help them move forwards even, while small touches were still enough to send sparks through them, while gentle smiles still quickened their pulse. It was why they had both the complete familiarity and the shyness of a fresh couple, and Sherlock found it to be an exhilarating mix, making his mind swim every so often.

It was the simplest things that brought his mind to a complete halt. Like one evening, after having dinner, when John hovered around the kitchen before settling on the sofa with a quiet huff. Sherlock raised his eyes, only thinking for a moment before getting up. He joined him, leaving a bit of space between them. John sank against the backrest of the sofa, his face more relaxed.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Are you watching anything?”

“Yeah, I thought I might.”

Sherlock nodded, looking ahead when a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Alright.”

They put on the telly, both looking ahead, neither of them really seeing anything. John's hand lay between them on the sofa, slightly curled in on itself, as if it was awaiting Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock placed his hand next to John's, his fingertips dancing over the warm skin before he took hold of him. John turned his hand, slipping it into Sherlock's gently. They held on, feeling each other's warmth, the little squeezes they gave, and it was everything, Sherlock thought. It was beautiful, and entirely too meaningful for an act so insignificant, and what he was holding in his hand was so fragile that it took his breath away.

Not John. John was resilience, and strength, and vigour. It was this newly found togetherness they were experiencing. It was gentle, and curious, and exploring in ways it hadn't been before, couldn't have, with everything that had been going on.

Sherlock knew that they were both still testing it out, playing with this delicate new blossom that was currently blooming. But he also knew that there was a strength behind it that prevented it from being broken. The blossom was deeply rooted, nurtured with the pain and happiness they'd gone through together.

It was new, and it was still growing, and Sherlock's stomach tingled with anticipation as he thought of where they might yet go. He could see John's face from the corner of his eye, could see the soft smile playing on his lips, and he squeezed his hand where they were laced together, revelling in the knowledge that he wouldn't have to let go.

* * *

The first time Sherlock took a case after John's return was the first time John came along to join him. Lestrade had pestered him about several cases, clearly perplexed by Sherlock's complete lack of interest. It took a triple murder to get Sherlock back in the field, and John's presence by his side wasn't even a question, it was a given.

“Can I just tag along like that?” John asked when they entered the restricted building, passing police officers and a forensics team.

“Of course you can,” Sherlock said, quirking an eyebrow. “You're with me.”

John still looked sceptical, but followed him anyway. Lestrade was waiting in the bedroom of the flat, looking up when they entered.

“There you are,” he said in greeting, “I was beginning to get worried that you'd gone MIA.”

“I was busy,” Sherlock mumbled, already scanning the room. _Two of the victims were married, the third one was not their son, their nephew, had lived with them for about thirteen years-_

“Er. Who's that?”

Sherlock's eyes snapped back to Lestrade, whose gaze had moved to John by his side.

“Oh.” He straightened. “Lestrade, this is John. John, Lestrade.”

Lestrade's mouth fell open. “John,” he repeated, dumbfounded. His eyes darted back to Sherlock. “John? As in, _John?_ ”

John raised his eyebrows, looking at Sherlock as well now. He sighed.

“Yes. John. John Watson.”

Lestrade looked back to John. “ _You're_ John? You're- sorry, but I thought- weren't you dead or something?”

“I was, officially,” John said, hunching his shoulders. “Long story. Good to meet you, though. You, er, seem to have heard about me?”

Lestrade shook his hand, finally remembering to close his mouth. “Yeah, you could say that. Blimey,” he mumbled, shaking his head.

“Don't know how you always do that,” he said, turning to Sherlock, “but somehow you keep getting the impossible done. I'm gonna need to hear that story.”

“Maybe when we're not standing in a room with three corpses,” Sherlock remarked, and Lestrade seemed to remember himself.

“Right. Uh, yeah. Let's get this over with. The couple on the bed-”

“Married, I know,” Sherlock interrupted him. “I'm more interested in the nephew. Tell me about him.”

“How did you- never mind. Andrew Smith, the husband's nephew. Orphaned when he was four, lived with the Carltons ever since. Only child, average lad, member of his school's basketball team. No trouble with the police.”

“Hm.” Sherlock's eyes were on John, who was leaning over the body with a frown. He glanced up when he noticed him looking. “What is it? Something caught your eye.”

“Um. It's probably nothing. I just saw the marks on his neck-” He pointed at the dark bruises- “and I kind of noticed that they're- well, rather violent. The couple doesn't look like that. It's like he was specifically targeted.”

“Very good.” Sherlock gave him an approving smile, reluctantly tearing his eyes from him to point at the bodies. “They've been stabbed, but Andrew Smith was strangled. Much harder to bring to completion. Much more violent.” He went down on one knee, lowering his head as he inspected the bruises. “We're looking for someone who's rather strong. Or very angry.”

He straightened, asking Lestrade, “He was seventeen, yes?” Lestrade nodded. “It's unlikely that he had enemies at that age, but not impossible. More plausible than someone randomly stabbing his family and strangling him.”

“We sent a few people to his school. I can pass the reports on to you, but so far there's nothing conspicuous. He seemed to get along with everyone. Nobody noticed anything odd about him.”

Sherlock hummed. “What about the couple? The boy might have been killed first, demonstratively.”

“The woman seems inconspicuous enough. Average job, average number of friends, went to a knitting club every Tuesday night. We're still looking into the husband, but he seems to have had something going on, judging by his phone.”

“You're going to have to be more specific than _something,_ ” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

Lestrade waved towards a member of forensics. “He had a few messages on his phone that we need to look into,” he explained when he'd handed him the bag, taking out the phone to give it to Sherlock. “There's a woman he had an affair with, and another chat that's a bit more mysterious. The conversation starts about a month ago, when the number texts him out of the blue that _it's time for him to know,_ whatever that means, and that they'll _tell him_. We don't know who _he_ is, before you ask. We're still looking into whoever's number this is.”

Sherlock scrolled through the messages, then returned the phone with a nod. “I'll need to see his account statements.”

“Alright. From when?”

“Present to about twenty years ago, preferably.”

Lestrade only blinked at him for a second before nodding once, used to his specific demands by now. “Right,” he said, turning away to make a call.

“Why twenty years?” John asked, catching Sherlock's attention again.

“I have a theory,” he explained, “but I need to check something first.”

John raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “Alright.”

Lestrade returned, stuffing his phone into his pocket as he said, “I can get you all of his statements by the afternoon, but they found a folder that contains a few recent years in the study earlier. You wanna take a look?”

“Please.”

The documents went back several years, enough to go on, and Sherlock smirked in triumph as he found the pattern he'd been looking for.

Feeling John's eyes on him he snapped the folder shut, stating, “I need to go outside to check something. Come along, both of you.”

John and Lestrade followed immediately, and Sherlock found himself smiling as he descended the stairs with quick strides. In a way, this was everything he had ever imagined his life to be - had ever _wanted_ it to be, and more. The work, John by his side, a friend with him - he would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying himself immensely.

On the pavement of the other side of the street he stopped and turned around, his eyes briefly meeting John's before he focused on the house. If John wondered about the smile on his face, he didn't mention it.

Sherlock took a few steps back and forth, stretching and ducking, his eyes fixed on the house. Eventually he straightened, a chuckle rising in his throat. He clasped his hands together.

“Well.”

He paused, relishing the prickling in his stomach as he dragged out the anticipation. He loved this part. He _adored_ it, the moment everything came together and the bigger picture was finally revealed, when he could walk the others through it to let them see it too. And now John was there to share this moment with him.

Everything he'd ever imagined, and more.

“Well?” John repeated when he didn't go on, amusement in his voice despite the confusion at Sherlock's behaviour.

Sherlock turned to him, his lips splitting into a grin as he said, “I solved it.”

“What? So soon?”

“So soon indeed. It was obvious, really.”

Turning to Lestrade, he said, “The person you're looking for is the husband's illegitimate child. He paid alimony, but didn't want anything to do with his son. When he showed up here to see that his father was raising another child he snapped. Probably a history of aggressive behaviour. Follow the number on the husband's phone or figure out the owner of the bank account he's been making those transfers to. That's the mother of the murderer.”

Lestrade's eyebrows rose to his hairline. He blinked a few times, but nodded. “You're sure?”

“Positive.”

Sherlock's eyes wandered back to John, who was shaking his head as he stared at him. “You figured all that out in half an hour?”

“It was obvious once I read the texts on his phone,” Sherlock explained. “The messages were from a woman he had an affair with years ago. The _he_ she was referring to was his son, who was now old enough to find out the truth about his father. Hence the approximate twenty years. If the woman knew his number, it was likely that she also knew his address. She told her son, he paid his father a visit, saw the living room from where he was watching outside and realised that he had another child, which led to the gruesome scene we just saw. Simple, in the end.”

He closed his mouth, gazing down at John, watching understanding dawning on him as the words registered. It was beautiful. And the way he was looking at Sherlock was even more than that.

“That's brilliant!” John said, regarding him like he'd hung the moon. Without thinking about it, Sherlock swooped down and kissed him.

John, clearly taken by surprise, wrapped his arms around him as he returned the kiss but a moment later.

His lips were warm and insistent, moving against Sherlock's without a hint of restriction. It was the first kiss they shared in broad daylight, outside the confinement of their own rooms, and Sherlock was acutely aware of his entire body. John smiled against his lips. Sherlock knew that he'd realised, too. He kissed him all the more for it.

They parted when Lestrade discreetly cleared his throat. John drew back first and Sherlock, chasing his lips, pressed a final lingering kiss to his mouth before straightening.

“Well,” he said, then stopped short when he saw Lestrade's face.

Lestrade was _beaming_ at him, grinning like he'd never seen him do before. Sherlock blinked. Clearing his throat, he continued, “I'm quite certain you'll manage to rest on your own, Lestrade. Nevertheless, this wasn't a complete waste of my time, so thank you for the call.”

He stole a glance at John, who was rubbing his lips with a soft smile on his face. “It's good to be back in the field. Text me when something new comes up.”

“Right, yeah." Lestrade nodded. "Thanks for your help, mate. Again. Christ.”

Sherlock waved his hand. “John,” he then said, moving to turn around.

“Hold on,” Lestrade called after him before he could leave, squeezing his shoulder tightly. “Good on you, Sherlock. I mean it. I'm really, really happy for you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, glancing at John, who was tactfully regarding the bushes on the side. He cleared this throat. “So am I.”

He caught Lestrade's eyes again and they looked at each other for a moment, passing things between them they would never say out loud. Lestrade nodded, stepping back.

“Don't let me keep you,” he said, turning to John. “John, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“You too,” John said with a big smile, waving once as they turned to leave.

“He's nice,” he remarked as soon as they were out of earshot.

“He's not unpleasant to be around,” Sherlock affirmed. John glanced at him.

“So you told him about me, huh?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Sherlock said. John turned his head to hide his smile. Badly.

“What did you say?”

“Shut up.”

John was quiet for a beat, pursing his lips as he attempted to keep a straight face.

“I do hope you only told him the good parts,” he said after a moment, and Sherlock groaned.

“John.”

“Sherlock.”

“You're insufferable.”

“You love me.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, I do. Obviously.”

He could practically feel John grinning by his side. “Good. Cause I love you too.”

Sherlock's own lips curved into a smile he didn't even try to hold back anymore. “Dinner?”

John chuckled. “Starving.”

* * *

The outside world was as much a joy to rediscover with John as their flat, Sherlock realised. London was all the more beautiful as he got to explore it with John by his side, following each of his steps.

They walked through side streets and busy places, following trails neither of them had taken before, going wherever it took them. They even went to see tourist attractions, because Sherlock knew John was yearning to see them and he would gladly accept masses of people in exchange for John's easy smiles.

“I might start writing a blog,” John announced when they were strolling through Regent's Park one afternoon, their hands firmly intertwined.

“What about?” Sherlock asked, bemused.

“Well. This.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “You want to write a blog about Regent's Park?”

John elbowed him, a smile playing on his lip. “No, idiot. I mean _this_.” He gesticulated towards their hands. “Our life together. With you and your mad cases and the body parts in the fridge, and me tagging along to everything. Just... us, I suppose.”

Sherlock hummed. “Us,” he repeated, the sudden surge of affection rising in him putting a smile on his face. He brushed his thumb over the back of John's hand. “Leaving out the backstory, I suppose.”

“Obviously,” John agreed. “No, it would just be about the here and now. I'll want to remember this in a few years. All of it.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement. “It is rather good, isn't it?” he mused, and John nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed, blinking up at the sky as he watched two birds flying past them. Sherlock left him to his thoughts.

“Do you remember what you told me?” he asked after a while, catching Sherlock's attention again. “On our last night in Berlin. About taking me to London, showing me all your favourite parts. Us living together.”

Sherlock hummed. “I remember.”

The memory had been tainted by the magnitude of his grief for the longest time, when Sherlock had been too raw to even think about it. It still felt somewhat heavy now, as if his body hadn't quite realised yet that the hurt was over, unnecessary, but he could handle it. He was working on reclaiming each of the good memories they'd made before John had left every day. He wasn't being pulled under by it anymore.

“I just,” John said, and then stopped.

Sherlock tightened his fingers around his hand in a gentle squeeze. “Yes?”

“I just thought,” John went on after a moment, shaking his head once, “how lucky we are, to actually have made it here. I mean, who gets to have everything they want so badly? It's insane. I didn't dare to even contemplate it back then, because I was so _sure_ that I could never have that. And now here I am.”

He looked down between them, shaking their interwoven hands. “Holding your hand. In London. Free to be with you the way I want.”

“We did have to go through a lot to get here,” Sherlock remarked, pushing the memories of the overwhelming emotions away before they could overcome him. “I think we probably earned it.”

“That's true,” John conceded. He turned his head to blink up at him. “And I intend to make the most of it. Always.”

His lips stretched into a smile, and the sight still managed to take Sherlock's breath away. After everything, something as simple as a smile was still enough to make him weak in the knees.

He hoped that he would never get used to it.

“Always,” Sherlock repeated, like a promise.

* * *

Sometimes John asked him to play the violin, and Sherlock happily complied. He always picked up the bow as John curled up where he was sitting, his eyes on him the entire time as he listened intently.

It had taken a while, but Sherlock had found the joy in playing again. It wasn't like it had been after Berlin, when playing had become a necessity, a coping mechanism to keep his mind from tearing itself apart. When it had hurt, but the pain had soothed the gaping hole in his chest for a while, and so he'd embraced it, playing until his fingers had been raw.

Now, with John as his audience and his insides back intact, playing had become a thing of beauty again. Creation. Expression of love, instead of pain and agony.

“Another one?” he asked when the final notes of the piece he'd played died away, his eyes on John's face. John was in his chair, his head against the back, a soft smile on his face.

“Please.”

“Bruch or Wagner?”

John's lips twitched at the choice between two of his favourite composers. He was still uneducated in the topic of classical music, but he'd learned to recognise a few pieces after listening to Sherlock's frequent concerts. Sherlock was quite sure that he could read John's enjoyment of a piece clearer from his body than John himself.

“Bruch,” he decided, and Sherlock only contemplated for a brief moment before raising his bow and going straight into the final movement of Bruch's Violin Concerto No. 1. It was a lively piece, overflowing with energy and joy, and he smiled as he played, knowing that John's eyes would be on him every moment. Time eluded him while he performed the piece, and when he lifted his bow from the strings after the final tone, John was clapping, a huge smile on his face. Sherlock took a deep breath, his chest heaving slightly, and lowered his head in a mock bow.

He was contemplating what to play next when a thought occurred to him. It was true that he'd learned to love the violin again, but there was still one thing he had yet to do.

Their song, the one he'd been playing over and over as he'd grieved, had been left untouched ever since John had come back. It was still tinged with the traces of Sherlock's pain, the grief that had gripped him so tightly that he had felt like he couldn't breathe. Sherlock didn't want it to be that. It was a song John had chosen for them, it represented an essential part of who they were.

It was _their_ song. And now Sherlock wanted to make it that again. Wanted to show John what it meant to him.

He brought his bow up to the violin, pausing for a brief moment before he started playing.

The music shook him from the very first note, waking a memory he'd put to rest, but he kept on playing.

He'd done endless variations of the song, and tonight he settled on a slightly drawn-out version, conveying the yearning he didn't know how to express otherwise through the long notes. He shut his eyes at the familiar melody, letting it engulf him as the bow moved over the strings.

He allowed himself to drown in it. He didn't look at John. He couldn't. This was something he had to do by himself before he could share it with John, because John hadn't felt the things he'd felt as he'd played that song. This was cracking open and healing up all at once. This was as essential as breathing. It was pain, and it was closure.

The music washed over him until he was swallowed whole, until the last drop of pain was extracted from him. And then it stopped hurting. He felt it, felt himself letting go, and he was surprised by the prickle behind his eyelids. He kept on playing, did not stop until the song was finished. He lost himself in it, lost every sense of time, and he knew it was necessary, because then he found himself again.

The music ebbed away when the final note died, leaving him with deep, ringing silence. The intensity shook him to the core, and it was a moment before he could resurface. His own breathing was loud in his ears as reality caught up with him.

When he opened his eyes to find John's, he startled. John was crying, the tears running down his cheeks in perfect silence. Sherlock's gaze rested on the wet trail on his face.

“John,” he said, for lack of something else to say.

“You learned it,” John got out, his voice hoarse. “I didn't think you'd-”

He blinked hard. “I just-” He broke off, taking a shuddering breath as he wiped his cheeks with his hands.

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock said, setting down his violin. “I didn't mean to make you sad. I only wanted to show you. What this means to me.”

“I'm not sad, exactly,” John refuted, shaking his head as he got up to cross the distance between them. “The way you play it, it's so- god. I love you. _So_ much.”

“I love you, too.”

“Come here.”

Sherlock stepped closer, wrapping his arms around his waist. John tilted his head up and he leaned in, brushing their lips together in a deep, warm kiss.

“I never thought I'd get to have something like this,” John whispered when they parted, stroking over his cheek and jaw gently. “I thought I couldn't have that. Being with someone like you. Getting to love someone like you. Being this happy.”

“You have it now.” A reassurance. A promise.

“I know. I think I'm probably the luckiest man in the world.”

“That's disputable,” Sherlock said, gazing down at him.

“No.” John shook his head. “I'm _so_ lucky. Absurdly lucky. You just seem to have that effect on me. You made me a lucky man, and a happy man. Two things I never thought I could be.” He blinked at him, brushing his thumb over his cheek. “You're everything to me, Sherlock. Everything.”

And Sherlock, knowing that words could never convey what he wanted to express, bent forward to kiss him again. They clutched each other by the window as they kissed, unable to ever get close enough but still trying. Always trying.

John buried his face in the curve of Sherlock's neck when they parted, and Sherlock held him close, his nose in John's hair, inhaling the comforting scent.

“I love you so much,” he mumbled when John drew back, putting his lips to John's forehead. John's eyes fell shut. He raised his chin, silently asking for another kiss.

“I love you too,” he said, gazing up at him. “More than my life. More than anything." His arms tightened around him. "Thank you for the song.”

“You chose it. I should be thanking you.”

John regarded him with an unreadable expression.

“Come to bed with me,” he asked, holding out his hand. Sherlock took it, and he followed him, because he always did.

Because he always would.

* * *

**_Twelve months later_ **

“You're back early.”

Sherlock turned to see John coming out of the bedroom, his laptop under his arm. He leaned in for a kiss automatically and, once they'd parted, said, “The case was an insult to my intellectual capabilities, really. Lestrade didn't even need me there. I don't know why he called me.”

“He likes you,” John pointed out. “Anyway, a better case will come along soon, I'm sure.”

“I do hope so,” Sherlock sighed, shrugging out of his coat. “The criminal classes are so unimaginative these days.”

John chuckled. “A real shame.”

He headed to the living room, settling at the table, and Sherlock turned around to fill the kettle.

“Tea?” he asked, already taking out two cups.

“Please.”

He listened to the sounds of John typing on his laptop, moving around in his chair, the familiarity bringing a smile to his face. The last year had flown by, and Sherlock could not for the world imagine ever having led a different life. Not having John by his side. It seemed unreal now. Unimaginable.

He'd never had any doubts about it, but it became clearer every day: it was going to be forever, and rightfully so. Every bad thing that had happened to them had only pushed them closer together, had brought them to where they were now.

And where they were now was good, as inadequate as that word felt. They were happy, most of the time. Sometimes they weren't, because the ghosts of the past weren't easy to shake, but they understood. They were silent when silence was needed. They gave space when the rooms closed in on the other. They entangled themselves when reassurance was necessary, getting so close that the thought of ever parting again became absurd.

Sometimes their life was running after criminals in the middle of the night through dark streets, sneaking into places they weren't supposed to be in. Sometimes it was quiet nights in, the music of the violin and rustling of the sheets filling the flat with more than just sounds. Sometimes it was the two of them drifting to different corners of the flat before being drawn together again. Whatever they did, they were together. And it was more than good. It was _right._

The kettle started whistling as it boiled. Sherlock moved to the fridge, taking out the milk. He'd actually remembered to buy some, this time.

“Sherlock,” John called from the living room, his eyes on his laptop, “come look at this.”

Sherlock put the carton down, walking over to where John was seated. He stepped behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder as he leaned in, his face hovering close to John's. “What is it?”

“The counter. 1895 clicks since I reset it last night.” He craned his head to glance at Sherlock. “I think we might be a bit famous.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Why are people so interested in us? It can't be your convincing and engaging writing style.”

John snorted. “People just like a good story, I suppose.”

Sherlock hummed. “They don't know the half of it.”

“No,” John agreed, kissing the tip of his nose. “They really don't.” He drew back, tilting his head as a gentle smile played on his lips. “It's a good one, though, isn't it?”

“It is,” Sherlock agreed, wrapping his arms around John's shoulders. John leaned back into the touch, a warm and comfortable weight on his chest. Sherlock smiled. “The very best, in fact.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are! I remember when I started writing this story with an estimated 50k as the final word count in mind. That was only a slight miscalculation... Instead this became my longest cohesive story to date. I spent almost three months writing this fic, and I've thought about it for much longer before that. It still feels strange to no longer work on this every day, and it's even stranger to be officially done with posting now.
> 
> I was so determined to get this written and posted before series 4 airs because a lot about how I feel towards this show depends on what happens in the new episodes. I love these characters dearly and they mean so much to me, and I wanted to give this story and them the attention and care they deserved in case the new season isn't what I hope it will be. I don't know how I'd feel about things in that case - Johnlock will always be important to me, no matter what, but I really can't say how it will affect me if things don't work out. I don't know if I'm going to write more for this fandom or if I never will again because I'm too hurt. 
> 
> So. I tried to see this story as my swan song for this show, just in case it actually is. Along with working on it every day, that's made this a rather intense experience for me, one that has taught me a lot, and I'm so grateful for each of you that has read along, left kudos, and especially those that commented. Your reactions and enthusiasm for this story have made me SO happy. It means more to me than I can tell you. So thank you for making this such a great ride for me, it's the best reward I could have asked for :) And I really hope you enjoyed it too. 
> 
> Got questions, thoughts, anything you want to say? Comments still make me very, very happy!
> 
> Until next time, hopefully :)


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